The Walking Dead: Fear the Living
by Jenthewarrior
Summary: Post-Season Three. Carol/Daryl/baby. Merle/Michonne. Life goes on in the wake of death, birth, and conspiracy. Can anyone in the prison be trusted? How far will Daryl go to protect his new family from the intrusions of the elusive Governor? Summaries are not my thing. Check it out, if you dare. No, really though. Dare. Dare away.
1. Permission

Daryl Dixon sat alone in the crook of a hemlock tree, both feet dangling over fifteen feet of empty air; he twisted a long, sturdy branch in one hand and carved elegant notches with the other, tilting his head back and forth to survey each fresh mark. The branches he'd already completed were lying across his lap, stained with the blood he'd distractedly drawn from his own thumb. He came here nearly every day to escape the chatter in the prison, the never-ending drama that unfolded between opposing parents, women, and self-righteous men. It was like living in a soap opera that happened to be set during the apocalypse. This place was quiet and though it was in the heart of the danger zone, he felt at ease. The cold, damp, sunless morning had passed as he began his current project, so he added a few extra details that his trembling hands would have screwed up. Also, with the sun beating on his back, he could ignore anything that stumbled beneath him, not letting the darkness twist his instincts. The walkers would pause, groan, wander to the stream and back, trip over the complicated root system, and then stagger off. Daryl even stopped drawing his feet up. The task consumed him so fully that he didn't hear Carol until she was directly beneath him.

"Is that blood?"

He stopped mid-cut and craned his neck to see her, a smile tugging on his mouth. The two of them had been on the same page for over eight months, growing closer as Daryl got the hang of having a real friend. She had a compassionate heart, and though it was irritating at times, he'd come to appreciate it. Oftentimes he forgot to eat, or to bring a blanket with him to the guard tower. She was always there because she _knew_ him.

Today she had brought him lunch – a bowl filling the air with steam – and even though it looked like the same old mush they'd been eating for a month, it made his stomach growl with desire. He hadn't eaten since the previous evening, when they'd shared 'eggs' in the guard tower. (Powdered eggs, to him, would never compare to the real thing).

"Hold up, I'm comin' down." He dropped straight down, falling into a heavy crouch to break his weight. Before going back up to retrieve his crossbow – which he'd uncharacteristically left in the tree – he dipped his finger in the bowl and licked it off, humming in appreciation. Carol mimicked him, and as she wiped her finger on her jeans they smiled at each other.

He ended up sitting beside her against the hemlock's trunk, wolfing down his oversized helping of mush while she detailed the drama back at camp. Apparently one of the women had a daughter about Sophia's age and Carol was concerned that the kid wasn't getting as much attention as her older, more obedient brother. He didn't comment, half because he couldn't get a word in edgewise and half because he liked to hear her talk. Her voice had become the only sound that could be both annoying and endearing to him – annoying when she was whining, but also full of what used to be normal life. She ended her report with a question she asked him almost every day. "Can't you whittle back at the prison, where it's safe?"

Daryl huffed, "I'm _carvin'_, and no. It's like a freaking circus in that place. I mean, who cares if Dave's mattress has lumps in it?"

She smiled thoughtfully and patted his shoulder. "Dave cares."

They stared at each other for a moment and then giggled like kids, removing the seriousness from her favorite question. She was apprehensive of the brush-off, but she didn't seem to mind. Still, Daryl didn't want her to worry. He motioned up roughly, pausing with his spoon in his mouth, "Ain't no walker gonna notice me up there. They're too dumb to look up. They get bored and wander off."

She watched him eat. He could feel her stress building up while, at the same time, trying to fade away. It was like that for everyone in the group. They could look out and see the walkers moaning at the gates, the empty roads, the smokeless skies, but if they turned their eyes inward they could see a thriving community occupying a place that had become so much more than a shelter. It was like Woodbury without the psychotic pirate. Twenty-six people, soon to be twenty-seven, were living between two worlds. It was hard to be alert and fearful when laughter filled the air. They had been perfectly safe for three months now, free of attacks, exerting complete control over the prison's undead inhabitants, but the hell they'd been through would never leave the back of their minds. Daryl could never forget that the world was gone, that they were living on a small island slowly running out of coconuts. He could see fear in Carol, as well. Sometimes she told him about her nightmares – about her daughter coming out of the barn that day, about the people in their group falling victim to the walkers, about slowly starving to death. It was in her face as she watched him, but he didn't want to talk about it. He'd had enough of the serious nature of their lives. His time with Carol was meant to be an outlet, not another black pit of sadness.

"Whatdya say we do a little reconnaissance?" he asked, jumping to his feet and pulling her up by her hand. He licked the rest of his meal from the bowl and handed it back, bouncing on his heels. "There's a lot we haven't cleared to the south – a whole town, a neighborhood. I took some maps outta Woodbury when we scavenged the place."

Carol smiled, fiddling with the bowl in her hands. "The supplies _are_ going fast… with so many people in our group, it's hard to keep the kitchen stocked."

That was a fact that both of them understood all too well. When the food ran out the people would panic and attempt to flee – it was easy to reason with one or two group members, but controlling the powerful mood swings of a crowd was hell. Soon it would turn into chaos and their well-earned peace would be stained with blood. He'd been thinking about it for days, going over the maps and marking places he wanted to visit. Some of them were hours from the prison, some of them even warranted a few days. He felt that it was worth it. He hadn't spoken to Rick about it yet but, hearing her words bring such life into the problem, his resolve strengthened.

"Come out with me," he said, letting his voice lower an octave. His brother would roll his eyes in distaste, but this was the tone he often used with Carol. It spoke the words he wouldn't dare voice, and he knew it made her feel safer; protected. He wanted her to know that he could be as gentle as Rick, or as protective as Glenn. Somehow it still made him feel weak, so, as a cover, he coughed his manliest cough and looked up at his carvings. "I can finish 'em another day, the cores have to dry before I stain 'em… I'm making a rocker for Judith. Ought to put everyone at ease not havin' to hear that kid scream at night."

Carol chuckled. "It's sweet the way you look after her. Last week it was a teddy bear, and now this?" She twisted to store the bowl in her backpack. When she looked back at him, she was nodding. "Well, where're we going?"

They walked toward the prison. A little flustered by her words – they meant a lot to him, considering what he often thought of himself – he kept tripping over things he would normally notice. Between strings of curses he noticed her smiling to herself. The distance between them never grew nor shrunk; it was a peaceful distance, one that he could appreciate. The only other person he'd been this close to was his brother, and that relationship was volatile as often as it was peaceful.

"You know, I been thinkin,'" Daryl said as they approached the stream. He slid into the water and held out a hand for her, helping her jump across without getting wet. As he climbed up the other side, taking her hand for balance, he tried to continue his sentence. "You and me-"

"_Walker_!"

Reality came down on them like a rockslide. Four walkers were hobbling eagerly toward them, appearing out of the brush all at once. Daryl ripped his crossbow from his back and fumbled with an arrow, off-kilter because of the break in violence and bare-knuckle survival. Beating him to the punch line, Carol lunged at the first walker, drawing a long dagger from the front of her pants and stabbing it through the eye. It snarled like an animal and swung its arm, but the motion seemed to be post-mortem. It fell heavily backwards and, as she'd failed to let go of her weapon, Carol collapsed on top of it. Daryl dropped his bow and wielded an arrow as a knife, shoving two walkers away from Carol before stabbing one of them through the temple.

Blood as cold as ice slithered down his arm as he yanked the arrow away. He grabbed Carol by the back of the shirt and the belt loop, pulling her roughly to her feet, and then he charged at the slowest of the walkers. It was starved and fell easily to his attack. Carol dispatched the last one by stabbing him through the side of his skull.

"Thanks," she said, breathless. She crouched and drew her dagger from the walker's head, grimacing as slime rolled down the blade. "Oh, that's just wrong."

Daryl laughed, taking it from her and wiping the blood onto his jeans. He handed it back, glittering like it was new. "Little blood never hurt nobody."

They began walking again. Carol squinted at him, "Speaking of blood, what'd you do to your hands? You should wear a thimble."

"I don't think they make those for wood carving," he pointed out, stopping her momentarily to pull a protein bar from her bag. He downed it in two bites, chewing while he spoke, "Besides, armor is for pansies. Real men ain't afraid of a little scarring."

She hummed deep in her throat, acknowledging his words without agreeing. They walked on in silence, more alert than they'd been before. Daryl kept his loaded crossbow in his hands, not willing to risk getting caught with his pants down again. Carol was still holding her knife, her eyes darting back and forth. The conversation died as their shared anxiety grew.

Finally they came upon the front of the prison. They jogged through the ranks of wandering walkers and waited at the gate. Carl rushed from the opposite end of his post and opened it – once they were inside he slammed it shut and locked it more tightly than before, wary of a few walkers who'd gotten close to entering. Testing the lock once out of habit, Carl turned to Daryl with shining eyes, both hands cupped together.

"Did you find any?" the kid demanded.

Daryl reached into his pocket and pulled out six pecans, handing them over. He looked at Carol, whose eyebrows were raised, and shrugged, "Romance has a cost."

"Beth loves pecans," Carl clarified, tucking them into his pocket. He walked with them to the next gate and opened it. "Are you gonna ask dad about going out?"

"On my way now. Stay outta trouble." Daryl flipped the hat from Carl's head and continued into the prison, searching the guard towers for the sheriff in question. Carol stayed by his side until they approached the courtyard, where Rick was pacing with his daughter in his arms – she said she was going to get some stuff packed for the road, but he knew she didn't want to be there when the two of them spoke. According to her, they weren't often civil.

His relationship with Rick, he realized as he took a seat on one of the nearby picnic tables, was the opposite of what everyone thought. He respected Rick for bringing them this far, for surviving Lori's death and finding the strength to look after Judith. He knew that Rick respected him as well – though their opinions often differed, Rick didn't act superior. The last time they'd really had it out over something was when Marcus, Dave's nephew, or brother, or something, had upset Beth enough to make her cry. Ironically it was Daryl who kept Rick from throwing Marcus out of the prison – they'd almost come to blows over that idiot's fate.

Now things had calmed down and Rick was in a good mood. He came to sit beside Daryl on the top of the table and gazed down at his daughter, copious amounts of love and admiration flowing from him. Whenever he had that kid in his arms he became a big ball of dough. Her mother's death had broken his heart, and Judith was his medicine.

"Little Asskicker's growin' like a weed," Daryl commented, reaching over and gently stroking her cheek. She took hold of his hand and tried to gnaw on it, but he pulled away. "No, you don't want none of that."

Rick chuckled and looked over. "Something you wanted?"

"I got a few places I wanna loot, see what I can pick up. Might be some more diapers, canned food, maybe a muzzle for Marcus."

"Solo?"

"I'm taking Carol. And… Carl wants to be my wingman. I told him I'd ask you." Daryl leaned a little into his knees, watching Rick's face for any sign of change. Father and son had been, for the most part, avoiding one another. Or, rather, Carl was avoiding Rick like the plague. The kid had been through the ringer and he distrusted the new group members – Daryl had debated putting him on night watch so he could sleep through the overpopulated days. Although he was a near-flawless shot and practically fearless, it was still his father's decision whether or not he would go on this trip.

Rick shifted as if a great weight had been placed on him. He heaved a sigh, full of frustration and tinged with anger. "I just want him to be safe, you know?" He glanced up, looking mournfully into Daryl's eyes, "But it's like he's not even my son anymore… like he grew up right in front of me and I didn't see it."

Rolling his lips inward, Daryl laid a hand on Rick's shoulder. "Listen, I'll keep him safe, and I'll have a talk with him."

Rick nodded and slid from the table, turning back toward Daryl, "You keep him safe, okay?"

"On my life."


	2. Blood

Carol sat on her bunk, loading a small duffel bag with things she might need while out with Daryl; so far she had a comb, a few changes of clothes – though they rarely took the time to switch outfits when outside the walls – and an extra handgun with a silencer attached to it. The bag never became full, though, because a grinning three-year-old was unpacking it piece-by-piece, laughing when she playfully knocked him into the pillows. His haggard father, Marcus, stood in the doorway, twirling a plastic straw in his mouth as he watched their every move. His presence made it hard for her to interact with his son; she never felt right when he was near.

"So what is it y'all are lookin' for?" Marcus asked. Somehow he could make anything sound condescending. He reminded her so much of Merle, only with a few important morals subtracted. That was scary enough in itself. She almost wished Rick would've thrown him out, but letting him stay was Daryl's insistence, and she had to respect their compromise. This heavy-set prize fighter was on probation, watched over by the burly, but kind-hearted, Tyreese. Too bad his guardian wasn't present – the child that was predicted to be born any day was his.

She tried her best to finish packing without ending her game with Cane, but Marcus was making it difficult. Finally she picked Cane up by his underarms and sat him on her knee, giving him a gentle kiss on the forehead. "Why don't you go visit your brother, sweetie?" Wordless, as always, he nodded and left the cell. She looked at Marcus. "We're looking for supplies; the food won't last forever, you know."

Marcus paused momentarily in his twirling and smiled. "Sounds… interesting."

She shrugged, keeping her eyes down. As much as she'd changed in the last year, as much as the death of her daughter and the never-ending battle for survival had hardened her, she still felt powerless to men who stood over her in that way. She knew that it was a ridiculous fear, but it was too deeply ingrained. She'd spent too long flinching whenever Ed moved. She just kept packing, folding things once, twice, three times, wishing he would leave so his hungry eyes would go with him. He was a bully, a condescending jerk who enjoyed pushing buttons.

_"You can't kill a man for being creepy,"_ Daryl's words came back to the front of her mind. That was his defense for Marcus, almost mirroring the way he'd defended his brother against the entire group. He'd told her that he was afraid Rick was becoming too cold, that human morality didn't apply anymore. It should. She agreed with that. But there was a price to pay for the safety of the group. It all came down to the value of a man's life. Was it worth living anxiously in his shadow? Did Daryl really believe this guy deserved another chance?

Marcus stepped into the cell and sat where Cane had been, replacing some of the things he'd taken from the bag. He pulled his straw from his mouth and leaned toward Carol, winking. "There ain't much 'round here far as good looks, 'cept that little piece downstairs. What do ya say me and you do a little connecting before ya head off? Man's got needs."

Completely by accident, and perhaps induced by Carl's comparison of Marcus to an overweight plumber who'd been run over by a lawn mower _twice_, Carol laughed. She was going to apologize immediately, but his hand was already locked around her upper arm, his jaw clenched, his eyes furious. Her system froze up. She was a deer caught in the same headlights she'd seen a thousand times before. Through a locked jaw she hissed, "Let go."

She didn't want to be that helpless woman who was always calling for help. She didn't want to scream for Glenn and make a scene in front of everyone. She didn't want this to be happening at all, but it was like she gave off a helpless vibe, and controlling men were drawn to it like buzzards to a corpse. To retain a little dignity, she tried to pull away from him – his hand tightened and suddenly she remember Daryl's other reason for letting him stay. Before the world had gone to hell, he was a mixed-martial arts fighter. Even better.

"Say you're sorry," he demanded.

It must've been those words that alerted the person walking by. What had been a shadow walking down the balcony twisted into the cell and descended on Marcus. The hand released her arm and she jumped up, backing into the wall. Tyreese hauled Marcus off of the mattress and slammed him into the bars, holding him there effortlessly.

"What did we say about touching women?" Tyreese demanded.

"It's bad," Marcus choked, half-smiling despite his situation.

"If you don't want Rick to throw your ass to the walkers, I suggest you apologize, and then keep your head _down_, got it?" He thrust him against the bars again for emphasis, and then released him. They stared at each other for several moments.

The tension between them broke when Daryl entered the cell, tossing his crossbow lightly onto the mattress and then pausing. "Party I wasn't invited to?" he asked, glancing at Carol. She tried her best to look normal, but her arm was already bruising, and she couldn't wipe the surprised look off of her face. His eyes narrowed a fraction.

"Look, I dealt with it, Marcus is gonna leave everybody alone from now on," Tyreese said, placing a hand on Daryl's chest to keep him from advancing on Marcus. As was his volatile nature, Daryl knocked the bigger man's hand away and flung himself at Marcus, getting one hand around the other man's throat. Carol moved forward and grabbed his arm to pull him off, shocked the situation had gone so far in such a short time, and Tyreese started shouting for help, doing everything he could to keep Daryl from getting any closer to Marcus. The other man was already choking, clutching at Daryl's hand, pinned by Tyreese's beefy arm.

Daryl wormed his way between them and shoved Tyreese sideways, using both hands to lift Marcus up and slam him backwards into the bars. The noise was incredible: metal clanging against metal, reverberating in the prison hallway. Daryl was no longer choking him, though, and Tyreese noticed this change in behavior. He stepped toward Carol, pulling her away from the action. He said something about dog fights, but she wasn't listening.

"Don't _ever_ touch her," Daryl growled, his face just inches from Marcus'. Far from smiling, the other man struggled to get free. "I gave you a second chance you dumb bastard, and this is what you _do_? Don't you think for one second your life means more to me than hers does – I will kill you if you come near her again. Don't talk to her. Don't look at her. Don't think about her. That goes for everybody in this prison." He let him fall forward and then slammed him back again, grunting with the effort. "You earn your life here, asshole." Daryl released him and hooked him in the face, lifting him up when he tried to double over. Carol thought he would never stop punching him, not when a crowd gathered outside, not when his children pushed their way into the cell. It was like watching Shane beat Ed all over again

Finally Daryl let him slump to the floor, backing away and panting. He was still in a fighting position for thirty seconds, during which no one moved, and then he dropped his hands and shook himself. His face shifted from rage to empathy. He pulled the wounded man from the floor and supported him on one shoulder, like he was carrying his own brother, and left the cell. The crowd let him pass and then dispersed as the action ended.

"You don't suppose-"

"No, I don't," Carol interrupted Tyreese's words, taking a seat on her bunk and letting her head fall into her hands. She heard Tyreese leave, perhaps making sure Daryl wasn't throwing Marcus to the walkers, and then she heard feet coming toward her. Small feet. She felt a tiny, soft hand prodding at her knee, asking for attention.

She looked up, smiling involuntarily as she saw Cane's tear-covered cheeks. She pulled him into her lap and wrapped her arms around him, rocking him like she'd rocked Sophia in the dead of night – she used to be so terrified her daughter's crying would wake her husband, and he'd do something terrible to both of them. The reasoning was different here. She knew that both boys were cautious of their father, that the scars on their bodies, their faces, didn't come from childish accidents. She knew that Cane didn't speak because something had traumatized him beyond words – most likely the recent death of his mother – but that he clung to his father, always at his side, always watching and listening. That scene must've terrified him.

His brother, on the contrary, seemed indifferent. He stood in the doorway, watching Cane, with those dark eyes she'd often seen on Carl. Owen was a bit younger, but so consumed by his demons that she knew this past year had been beyond brutal for him. Carol touched his shoulder and whispered, "It's gonna be alright. Your dad's gonna be fine."

He stared at her and shrugged, mumbling, "I hope he dies." He walked over, pulled Cane out of Carol's arms, and led him away by the hand. He was so gentle with his brother, so considerate of his pain, and yet so cold on the outside. She sat there staring after them with nothing to say about it, no idea what to think.

Ten minutes later Daryl came back with Carl in tow. He zipped Carol's bag and motioned for her to follow, his face blank with thought. She knew he would be reconsidering his decision about Marcus – she wondered if he'd told Rick, if anyone had thought to toss him out of their home. His eyes flickered back to her arm and he sighed, dropping the bag and sitting beside her; he lifted her elbow with two fingers and inspected the light brown bruise on her skin.

"We should throw him out," Carl said, inspecting the top of his gun nonchalantly. The fact that he was talking about killing a man didn't seem to sink in. Or it did, and he was fine with it. Either way it chilled Carol. The little boy she'd met on the highway that night over a year ago was long gone, and his replacement was shaped by death.

Daryl turned on him, venom in his voice, "We wouldn't throw a _dog_ out." Carl swallowed and looked down, his jaw clenching with unspoken rebellion. "You don't wish that on anyone, okay?" Daryl said, almost talking to himself now. "I'm not putting a man out there to get torn to pieces by walkers."

"You would have a few months ago," Carl muttered.

Rolling his eyes, Daryl turned back to Carol. "Let's go. We're killin' daylight, and if Dahmer over here doesn't shut up I might be killin' more than that."

"Stop pretending you don't know it's the right thing to do!" Carl snapped.

Crouching to get a good look at his face, Daryl narrowed his eyes. His voice was dark and impatient. "Listen to me, Carl, and listen good. You got a lot of growin' left to do, a lot of learnin'. You may think you know what the right thing is, but you don't. Trust me on that. After all I done for you, you can give me this. _Believe_ me."

"Why should I?" Carl responded stubbornly.

Daryl took a breath. "I wanted to kill my old man when I was a kid – I thought the world would be better, maybe my brother'd come back. You know what I think now?"

Carl said nothing, but watched him without his typical arrogance.

"He's not worth blood on my hands."


	3. Welcome

His first choice was Welcome, a small town located fifty miles north of the prison. The other places he'd marked were in the opposite direction, most of them along the same stretch of highway, but this one was in the middle of a forest, bisected by a river. According to their records the residents of Woodbury had yet to raid this town's supplies. The short description following its coordinates told Daryl all he needed to know: _Factory town, known for doing business with medical supply warehouses, outskirts farmland. _Once he got Carol and Carl into the SUV they hit ninety down a smooth stretch of road, racing the sun and startling the birds. They passed house after house, most of them stripped by Glenn and Maggie, and several dozen graves – the place where the fallen Woodbury army had been buried. Little conversation was made because Daryl pointedly kept the windows down. The sound of wind was all he wanted to hear. His mind was consumed with the 'Marcus problem.' The way he'd beat that man reminded him of how he had to put his brother down, and it awakened in him bitter pain, but also tenderness. A cruel kind of love that made him so thankful for Merle's life, and so pissed about his death.

Carol had noticed the dark look on his face and, though she kept her words to herself for the first thirty miles, she eventually broke through the wind and spoke to him. "This place we're going to, what do you expect to find there?"

He could tell she was trying to distract him. It worked. "Blankets, generators, hand warmers – hell, anything to make winter easier." He mindlessly adjusted his mirrors, feeling that his hands had rested on the wheel for too long. "If anyone gets sick we'll need antibiotics. We're gonna have three babies, you know."

She smiled in a motherly way and glanced at Carl, who was also smiling softly. Whenever Daryl thought of babies he saw a clear image of Judith in his mind. Some nights Rick would let him take care of the kid, and he'd sit cross-legged on his bunk and entertain her until she fell asleep. Her favorite place to spend the night was in the arms of one of her family members – Rick, Beth, Carl, Carol, or Daryl – snuggled up like an angel surrounded by a broken world. Now that Eileen had given birth, he often thought of her son, Alex, and how exhausted she looked almost every day. She refused to let anyone else take him, and she was suffering for it.

These were the things in Daryl's mind as he gave his two companions a jokingly condescending look. "Oh, jeez, would ya knock it off?"

Carl grinned and scooted to the edge of his seat, wrapping both arms around Carol's headrest and staring at the road ahead. His face was free of the troubled thoughts he'd been harboring for a year now – he almost seemed to be a kid again, if only for this moment. "Do you think Judith will start walking soon?" he asked.

"She's only a few months old," Carol responded, "It'll take a while."

"Why ask?" Daryl said, interrupting whatever Carl was going to say

The kid shrugged. "The sooner she can run, the better."

XxX

The town of Welcome was much larger than Daryl had expected. The streets were in excellent condition, the chalk fresh and bright, the buildings smiling out onto what must've been a nice place to live. Though there was only one main road, lined with specialty shops and ending in the parking lot of an elementary school, the place had incredible charm – side roads spun out into the forest, signs announcing the families who lived there. What struck him was the lack of abandoned cars and roving walkers. It was abandoned. There were no bodies, no piled tires, and no pools of blood rolling toward the gutters. The walls were free of graffiti spouting bullshit about God, the church doors were closed and locked, the store windows were intact, and the sidewalks were clear of litter. It was like they'd stepped into one of those fake towns built to test the effects of nuclear bombs. The entire scene chilled him.

"Where are the walkers?" Carl asked, clutching his gun with both hands. He walked at Daryl's right shoulder, tucked a bit behind him, while Carol was at his left, studying the streets with wide, cautious eyes.

"Maybe this town was evacuated early," she said, though it sounded more like a question. She was just as puzzled by this place as Daryl. She nudged him a moment later and pointed out a family-owned pharmacy. "The door's locked – it might be a goldmine."

Their path changed immediately. Daryl was starting to feel hopeful, but it made him all the more cautious. He didn't like the look of this place. He didn't like how it felt. His instincts were usually right when it came to predators lurking in the dark – he'd sensed a bear once and hauled his ass up a tree before it could notice him. Here the predator was like a mist settling over him, the calm in the middle of a horrible storm. Where were the walkers? Why were all of the doors locked? Why did this place look like it had never been hit by the death and decay that had ruled the world for more than a year? It was all too clean. Too perfect.

His hunch was proven as Carol picked the lock and pushed the doors open. The three of them raised their weapons and stood tensely in front of a vast, dark room. Only seconds later the smell of rotting flesh washed over them and they all turned and gagged. Daryl's entire stomach heaved into his throat and it took him a while to recover. The smell engulfed the street and kept them coughing until they all had their shirts over their mouths. Carol's eyes were watering.

"Watch for walkers, we just rang the dinner bell," he ordered them, pulling a flashlight from his belt and flicking it on. He held it over his crossbow and stepped inside, navigating the threshold and examining the inside of the pharmacy. Carol was right. It was full stocked, untouched by looters. Cold medicine, bandages, prescription medication, canned food and snacks, bottled water, draw-string athletic bags. But there was a catch. As he reached the back counter, deep in the lightless reaches of the building, he found a pile of corpses.

He first noticed that they weren't walkers. Their eyes were human. They'd been shot through the back of the head, executed on the floor. He could see the bloodstains where their bodies had been dragged by other humans to lay in a pile like rotted logs. Their flesh was pouring away from their bones, liquefying and filling the carpet so it squished under his feet. Their skin was greenish, swimming with maggots who writhed as the flashlight moved over them. None of them had been bitten, before or after death. It occurred to him that the rest of the locked homes and businesses would have dead bodies rotting inside, the product of an army or a group of idiots who overreacted when the walkers first appeared. The town of Welcome was executed.

He laid a tarp over them and headed for the door.

When he came out Carl and Carol, receiving his approval, unzipped their bags and hurried in. Daryl took a seat on the steps and ran his hands over his head, trying to drag the image of slain people from his mind. He spent the day checking buildings before the others, covering the bodies so that Carol and Carl wouldn't see what he saw. Sometimes he hid them. The SUV was loaded with every medication in the pharmacy, all of the bandages, some bags of cough drops, a few cheaply made teddy bears, and several boxes full of canned food, snacks, and word search books. From the houses they took thick comforters, scented candles, the cleanest pillows, and an array of soaps, shampoos, razors, and deodorants.

The last house, which was right beside the school, became their target at about four in the afternoon. Carol drove the SUV closer and Carl stood on the steps, watching for walkers with admirable obedience. Daryl headed inside, checked for walkers, and then covered the bodies of a man and a woman, who lay sprawled across the kitchen floor. He discovered a set of stairs leading up to another room, one that used to be an attic. He found two beds with pink veils over them, princess bed sheets, and stuffed animals. The first girl lay in front of the giant dollhouse, her milky blue eyes staring at the ceiling, and the other was still in bed, a pillow over her face. There was a hole through the pillow, scorched by a gun. He took more time than he usually did, carefully pulling the girl's comforter off and tucking it over her body. He crouched beside her and stared at the shape of her body beneath the blanket – he took a deep breath as blood began to soak through. He thought about bringing Judith some of the toys in the room, but he couldn't do it. As he left he shut the door and vowed to keep it closed. Things like that should never see daylight.

They took a break in the car before entering the school, anticipating a large score of canned fruits and vegetables. Daryl handed out large chunks of deer jerky, which he'd made a few days early after downing a sizeable buck. Though she grimaced when he told her what it was, Carol seemed to enjoy it, taking a small bite and then devouring the rest. Carl chewed thoughtfully and stared out the window, rubbing his shoulders to ease the strain. They'd been hauling heavy boxes since midday, so Daryl didn't blame him.

He thought about the kids while he was eating, and he wondered if he would find more dead kids in the school. That thought appalled him. He debated calling it a day and coming back to Welcome alone to give the youngest victims proper burials. He even thought of bringing Rick or Glenn, who would sympathize and assist him. Carol noticed his silence. He could see apprehension on her face, realizing he'd gone in first to protect them from something. He knew that she appreciated it, that much was apparent in her warm face, but he wouldn't tell her about them. He would tell anyone else, but not her. Not after Sophia.

She cleared her throat to break the silence, "We should just check the cafeteria. The rest of the school probably doesn't have much."

The burden he'd been feeling drifted away and he nodded. "Yeah."

Carl hummed his agreement, shoveling the last of his jerky into his mouth and taking a swig from his water bottle. After a moment's thought he drunk the entire bottle and sighed contently. "Give me a second… digesting…"

XxX

The school was just what they'd imagined but, thankfully, not what Daryl had dreaded. The cafeteria had a few dozen abnormally large cans of preserved food. They spent fifteen minutes walking back and forth, carrying as many cans as they could manage; their size made it impossible to carry more than three, but they were also heavy. The green beans had to be carried alone, as did the corn. The fruits were lighter, but they sloshed around inside and made it hard to stay steady. Carl tore his knee open in the courtyard because he stopped while carrying peaches. When they had the food loaded up they went back for other supplies – there were a few bags of spices, salts, and sugars, but no one thought they were worth taking. They took two can openers, some bowls, plates, and utensils, and a few dozen plastic cups.

They were loading up the car by sunset, yawning in the midst of their conversation. Carl was trying to convince Carol to make pancakes one morning, just to remember the good old days, and she was refusing on the basis of 'wasting food.' Daryl didn't have an opinion, but he spoke aloud to himself as he wrote down everything they'd plundered. Glenn insisted on keeping a clipboard detailing the places they'd been and the things they'd taken. He said that, in a few years' time, it would really matter what resources were available. Daryl agreed.

"Carol, are these seeds?" Daryl grabbed a few small pouches which were among several dozen, holding them up for her to see.

She nodded. "I saw them in one of the houses and I thought Hershel could take a look. Might be worth growing."

Shrugging, he wrote 'mystery seeds' on the clipboard and listed the number as 'ain't fucking counting.' He made a mental note to watch Glenn as he was reading that part. Their loot filled the entire trunk and most of the back seat, giving Carl a little area to sit, but not much room to stretch out. The SUV was sitting low when he finally ordered them to get in.

"How come all the walkers in there were already dead?" Carl wondered as they sat waiting for the engine to warm up. He was staring across the road at one of the houses – one with six dead bodies rotting in the back room. Daryl hadn't told them what he was covering up, only that he'd covered them up for common decency. It would be easier if the kid thought of them as walkers.

"National guard must've showed up," he offered. When Shane was still with the group, he'd told everyone how he'd tried to get Rick out of the hospital that day. He'd told them that soldiers were lining up innocent people and executing them like animals. Daryl drew a parallel in his mind and because of it, his voice was drenched with sarcasm.

Carl didn't notice. He was too tired. Soon he was slumped against the window. Carol, however, was watching him, her head leaned heavily on her arm, her eyes tired. "Those were people in there, weren't they? Dead people?"

He nodded stiffly.

"Thank you," she whispered, reaching over and wrapping her cold fingers around his forearm. She squeezed lightly, pressing her lips into a tight smile. "And… I'm sorry."

He glanced at her face, sighed, and shrugged. "Yeah."


	4. Dave

It had been dark for several hours when Daryl hit the brakes in front of the prison. There were few walkers about, perhaps deterred by the cold and the powerful wind, but he still tapped the steering wheel impatiently as Glenn unlocked the gate. The yard was eerily empty. Daryl rolled down the window to greet Glenn, who strolled beside them toward the inner gate – this gate had been laced with metal and set with concrete to provide extra security in case the first gate failed. As he was unlocking it, the gleam of headlights on his back, he asked, "Get much?"

"Shit-load. Get ready to unload." Daryl sped down the path to the front of the prison and stopped as close to the door as he could, carefully avoiding the gardens and construction projects left when the sun had faded. He got out and went straight to Carl's door, yanking it open and catching the kid before he could roll out. Carl grumbled, but fit naturally into his arms like any exhausted person, his head rolling back into Daryl's shoulder. As he walked by Carol's window, he gave it a hard tap and, finding bleary eyes directed at him, he jerked his head toward the prison.

He carried Carl inside, pressing his face to the exterior door until Maggie, who'd taken the night post parallel to Glenn's, came rushing toward him. She let him in and hovered over him, making sure he wasn't carrying a corpse. Once she was sure he was only sleeping, she smiled sweetly and commended his task, holding the second door open for him.

The inside of the prison had changed for the better since their arrival. The cold, rectangular, clinical place became a sanctuary lined with carpets, curtains, and drawings the children had done. Every cell had thick blankets tied to the ceilings and doors, insulating the rooms and providing a little privacy to the residents. Daryl's perch, the landing to the left of the stairs, had blankets over the railings, but it was otherwise open to the others. He spent his nights stretched out on a bare mattress, listening for danger, his crossbow under his palm. He could've bunked with Carol, in fact, the invitation was always given, but he preferred cold to darkness, solitude to company. As he entered in this late hour, he found mattresses lining the right side of the room, tall candles burning on the balconies, and a dark blur of blankets along the left side, where people had done their best to completely close off their cells. Those that slept on the floor had volunteered to sacrifice some of their privacy – young children, such as Cane, Owen, Teagan, and Ian thought it was the greatest thing in the world, and it also served as an on-call post for the combat-ready members such as Rick and Tyreese, who desperately needed sleep but wouldn't find comfort in the relative safety of a prison cell. Most of the mattresses were full this night, shoulders covered with blankets, moving softly with steady breath. In fact, the only sound was their breathing, a deep, familiar music that sometimes lulled him to sleep.

Stepping lightly as to keep from waking anyone, Daryl took Carl straight to his shared room, pausing as he entered. He found the daunting, 6'7 Navy SEAL Dave sitting on the bottom bunk, reading a massive book by the light of a small candle. Nodding respectfully and apologetically, Daryl set Carl on his bed and tucked him in, making sure that none of his skin was exposed to the cold air. Once the kid was settled, he took a step back and looked at Dave. The book he was reading was entitled _Finding Peace After War_.

"Doing a little light readin' before bedtime?" he asked, in a lightly sarcastic fashion. He was interested in Dave, though, and let it show through his eyes. He was glad to see the man doing something other than knitting or climbing trees to put little birds back in their nests.

Dave smiled softly. His skin was so dark that, briefly, only his eyes and teeth could be seen in the flickering candlelight; it made him appear as more than a man, the face of a god peering through the shadows. Despite Daryl's rocky relationship with Marcus, who was in some way related to this man, he'd always felt a deep respect when he was around Dave. He respected men who took care of their smaller, weaker relatives – Dave was sweet on Cane and Owen, often sacrificing his manliness to play elaborate games with them – and he respected the way he defended Marcus despite his flaws. Daryl wasn't sure how he felt about the man's extensive knowledge on petunias and potting soil, but those qualities weren't _bad_. This opinion was shared by most of the people in the prison – he was known to be a man who rarely complained, who had a lethal knowledge of weaponry and combat, but who never used his strength to stand over others. He was humble and gentle, if not a little too much like Hershel when it came to annoying philosophy. Daryl appreciated him.

"What is there to do when the sun sets, and dreams do not come?" Though his name sounded American, Daryl knew that it wasn't. He was originally called David, translated directly from the English Bible, interpreted by his South African parents to mean 'soldier of God.' Cruel irony brought a rebel army to his village when he was six, and he became a real soldier, pillaging and murdering because it was all he knew. His mother, or sister, or aunt – Dave was never very clear about his blood relations with Marcus – had a son called Marcus, and she asked him to take the boy to a better place. Dave broke from the army and stowed away to the United States where he was placed in foster care. Daryl had asked him once why he still spoke with such a strong accent, and his response had been touching. "I was a strong boy, but I felt weak on the inside. Like something was wrong in my chest. I missed my home, the wide plains, the clear sky, so I knew that I could never forget what my home sounded like."

Marcus, according to Dave, never got a chance to have a strong mind. He often compared his relative to Daryl, describing him as a willing rebel, a man who hated himself and rejected his worth, but who was worthy of love and possessed great ability. Daryl, true to his nature, tried not to listen when Dave talked about Marcus. He'd rather just beat the guy's face in. But it was hard to turn away when someone looked at you with such old eyes.

In response to his friend's words, Daryl shrugged, "Some people count sheep."

Dave smiled that godly smile again. "I will do this then, my friend. Find me some sheep when you leave in the morning, and when you return, I will count them."

He left Dave in a better mood, glad to have spoken to him, and went back to the SUV. He found Carol sleeping in the front seat, the bags under her eyes crinkled as she rested against the window. It had been a long day full of physical labor so he didn't wake her. He did the same thing he'd done with Carl, carrying her in and placing her on her bunk. She stirred as he was tucking her in, her eyes flickering momentarily to his, and then she smiled drowsily, squeezed his hand, and rolled over. Yawning, he walked back to his mattress, exposed and open to the world, and lay down for a while with his hands folded behind his head. He stared at the ceiling, his eyes open.

Eventually he stood, grabbed his blankets and his pillow, and went back to Carol's cell, climbing to the top bunk and curling up close to the wall. Thanks for the candles placed on the makeshift table and the heavy blankets blocking out the cold, metal air, he was able to become drowsy, and eventually shut his eyes. The flickering of fire followed him into his dreams about dead bodies and giant cans of vegetables.

XxX

Daryl woke up as the sun was rising, his mind muddled from an array of confusing dreams. He pulled the blankets off and stretched in the cold morning air, peeking down to find Carol's bunk empty. She'd closed the door behind her, though, to keep out the light and the cold, allowing him to sleep for a little bit longer. Smiling in appreciation, he jumped down, shivering violently when his bare feet struck the floor. He stretched again, peeling off his dirty shirt. He sat down on her bunk to examine a blister on the ball of his foot. She came back a moment later, sitting beside him with a warm smile and handing him a plate of steaming pancakes.

He took them greedily and shoveled them down, groaning at the sensation of warm food in his belly. She also had Parmalat, the type of milk that doesn't require refrigeration before it's opened, and she gave it to him once he'd licked his plate clean. He'd never appreciated milk so much in his life – it went down like sweet, sweet honey.

"I might have to marry you if you keep it up," he warned, retrieving his shirt and shaking the dust out of it. Carol put the plate and the cup on the little table and snorted in response, beginning to leave but hovering in the doorway. She watched him. "What?" he demanded, scraping a dried chunk of sap off of his sleeve.

She shrugged, smiling. "Nothing. What time are we leaving?"

"Micro is a six-hour drive from here, so we'll at midnight – you and Carl can sleep on the way, get your energy up." He stood, donned his shirt, and squeezed past her, turning to meet her eyes for a moment longer. "Thanks for the pancakes. That was real nice of you."

She nodded. As he walked away he could feel her eyes boring into his back, curious, but reluctant. The prison was bustling at this hour – the mattresses along the side had been flipped to stand straight against the wall, the kids were racing around screaming like banshees, Gloria, Dave, and Karen were knitting and gossiping, and Tyreese was carefully scrubbing a toy Daryl had given him days ago. It was a doll for his kid. As he hit the bottom of the steps, Carl, who'd been sitting in the doorway to his cell, watching the kids play with disinterest, sprang to his feet and jogged over, following him to the door.

"Everybody's been sayin' how much good stuff we brought last night," Carl announced, beaming as he unlocked the door and then shut it behind them. He was practically bouncing. "We're like heroes now."

Daryl huffed, leaning against the wall while the kid unlocked the second door and then passed the keys to Owen, who had come out realizing that Carl was leaving his post. They entered the courtyard, where a makeshift basketball court had been designed, and walked around the edge, avoiding four sweaty men who dashed up and down the pavement. They came upon the gardens next, which extended toward the gates but didn't get too close. Hershel was supervising a few young women and Marcus, who was being punished for his behavior. From what he heard upon approaching, Daryl knew they were dealing with potatoes, a valuable resource that could be harvested from this cold ground.

"You call that planting?" Daryl jeered as he approached the women.

Elizabeth, Gloria's daughter, smiled up at him, putting her gloved hands on her hips. "Why don't you get down here and try it, Mr. Crossbow? Mr. Gatekeeper?" Carl readily accepted her invitation, joining her in burying a slice of potato that was already growing roots. Daryl looked immediately to his least favorite group member.

"Sorry, duty calls. Marcus, let's chat." He waved Marcus out of the rows of plants and then approached Hershel, helping him pull one of his crutches out of a soft patch of dirt. Hershel smiled in appreciation. "Tell me what you think about Marcus."

Nodding wearily, Hershel walked with Daryl to the edge of the concrete and sat down on one of their makeshift benches, wiping sweat from his brow. "That man is hiding something. I can feel it. I want you to be careful with him."

"Isn't redemption the Christian way?"

"Redemption, damnation; we find too much of the latter these days."

Daryl considered him for a moment, disturbed by the serious nature of his face. "When we first came to your farm you thought we were the worst kind of people. You changed your mind."

"That's true. It's possible that he's trapped by his own actions. Some men can't muster an apology to save their lives but I'll be damned if they're not sorry. I think you know what I mean."

"My brother."

"From the moment he walked through those doors I knew he was a dangerous man, but the way he kept his eyes on you, how much he cared for you, how scared he was when you went to that meeting with the Governor – I knew one important thing from that: if he could love his brother, he could be redeemed. I don't see that in Marcus. What should be love for his boys is just… cold. He looks right through them. But… that Cane… he never leaves his dad's side."

"Kid's so terrified he won't even talk," Daryl pointed out harshly.

"I agree, but terrified of what?"

Just then Marcus approached, cutting Daryl's complex thoughts short. It was easy to think of someone in the abstract when they weren't around, but when confronted by a big, muscular, smirking asshole, one could hardly read aloud from the bible. Daryl stood, watching as the other man dusted his hands with a dirty rag. He looked contemptuously at both of them, anger and distrust making him appear as a villain. It didn't help that he had a thick knot under his chin, a black eye, and blood-crusted nostrils. Daryl understood why Hershel would be wary of this man – he presented himself as a predator, standing straight, holding his head up, facing off with everyone he encountered.

"How's the nose, buddy?" Daryl taunted.

He said nothing, only scowled.

"Look, I'm not sayin' I overreacted, but I shouldn't have done what I did." Daryl shifted, crossing his arms over his chest. "Just give up on the pride bullshit – it's not gettin' you anywhere. You're here, you haven't hung yourself from the balcony yet; you want to _live_. To live you have to stay with us, and to stay with us, you have to act like everyone in that prison is your family. Right now those people think you're a criminal" – Daryl noticed him cringe at that, and it drove his next sentence – "they thought the same thing about me when they first met me. It's not fair, but you gotta prove 'em wrong."

Nodding to Hershel, Daryl left with those words. He jogged across the pavement, joined soon by Carl, who, upon seeing him leave, had abandoned his potato chunks and sprinted after him. They walked back into the cell block and took up watch on the balcony, both legs dangling through the bars. On any other day Daryl would've sent Carl away, but he simply ignored him, his eyes often drifting to his other traveling companion. Carol was scrubbing laundry on a long wooden board, laughing and smiling as she talked to Dave – he was telling jokes about the hat he was knitting, hoping that Karen's baby would be a boy because he didn't have any pink. Daryl found himself smiling whenever she did, taking her happiness to heart. He was glad she had overcome this world – he was glad she still had such spirit.

Carl noticed his staring and frowned. "You like Carol, huh?"

Daryl shrugged.

"Why don't you kiss her?"

Amused, Daryl looked over. "Why don't you kiss Beth?"

"She says she's too old for me," he responded downheartedly, pulling out his gun and polishing the silencer with his shirt. His eyes traveled back to Carol. "Really, though, you should tell her. I think she likes you too."

"It's not that simple, kid."

"Sure it is."

Daryl didn't respond, not wishing to debate with him.

"Have you ever even kissed a girl?"

"Have _you_?" Daryl demanded, turning sideways and resting his face against the bars.

"You haven't?" Carl asked, astonished.

"I didn't say that," he responded shortly. The memory of a little girl with pigtails who once knocked him off of his bike came to mind. He shook it away immediately, wishing to change the subject. "How old are you, anyway? Ten?"

"Thirteen."

"Well, if you really like Beth, then you protect her, and be her friend, and make sure that when she needs something, she has it." He nodded when Carol looked up and noticed him, smiling in that gentle way she had. Her eyebrows drew down as if she'd seen something dark in his face; he tried to made it leave, but he couldn't. He looked back to Carl to escape her questions.

Carl finished polishing his gun and put it back in its holster, pulling himself up from the railings. "Come get me when it's time to leave." He descended the stairs and sat with Beth, helping her fold the clothes that had come off of the clothes line outside. Daryl watched them for several minutes before he left the cell block, determined to chase his thoughts away by finishing the last leg of Judith's rocker.

He could feel Carol watching him leave.


	5. Rage

**Thanks for all the great reviews! It actually pushed me to write this chapter instead of binge on World of Warcraft and Civilization V. (This chapter sponsored by WOW and Civilization.) Now that's progress. I really enjoyed writing this chapter because there's a conflict growing within Daryl and Carol – is this guy gonna be the downfall of the group? Why won't his son speak? Why is he so unnecessarily creepy? Why am I asking **_**you**_** all of this?**

XxX

The world was falling to black again. Carol had been monitoring the kids in the yard for several hours, watching them draw elaborate maps in chalk and then run through them, imitating older group members as they dispatched walkers. She watched the sun fall, allowing a few minutes for the conclusion of another exciting scene before she sent them inside. Teagan, the second oldest under Owen, and her little brother Ian, headed obediently for the door. It took Cane a second little nudging, but he eventually left his brother's side and ran after his friends. It was the oldest boy, an eleven-year-old with scarred, pale brown skin, who remained where he was, scraping chalk aggressively into the pavement, moving so strongly that he often tore the skin from his hands when the chalk ran out. Carol walked to his side and crouched, examining the scribbles he was making and trying to find a picture in them. It turned out he was marking over a drawing he'd done of his little brother. Eventually Cane's curly hair vanished, and only dark blue remained.

"That was a real special drawing," she said softly, watching his face. "It was of your brother, wasn't it?" He didn't respond. "Why'd you color over it?"

He looked up, his face just as frustrated as his movements. "Because he's gonna end up dead. Dad's gonna kill him, just like he killed mom."

Cold settled over her, brought on by the severity of his words. She was almost positive he meant she'd been a walker, and his dad had put her down to protect them, but there was doubt in her. That doubt made her afraid. She tried to reason with herself to no avail. She'd always been weary of Marcus and suddenly that wariness seemed justified. Had he murdered his wife? Was that the reason for Cane's silence? Was that what had driven Owen to be such a troubled boy?

"You should go inside with the others, help Cane set up his bed," she said, though her voice jumped through a few different octaves. She couldn't help it. His words had thrown her.

"He can do it _himself_." On the last word, he pressed the chalk down too tightly and it snapped in his hand. He held the broken half for a moment, staring at it, and then he dropped it and retrieved another piece. She had an idea of how to handle the situation, how to ask him what was wrong and get him to go inside with the others, but his father approached in the very next moment and combusted the air around them.

"The lady wants you to go inside," he growled, grabbing Owen by the back of the shirt and jerking him to his feet. He crouched to meet his son's eyes, scowling. "Move your ass."

The kid ripped away, huffing, and threw his chalk across the yard. It hit the asphalt and shattered into a thousand pieces, which skidded off into the shadows. Giving his father a venomous look, and pushing roughly by Carol, he headed for the door, not stomping, but stalking. The adults stood and watched him go, Carol feeling uneasy to have encountered a man like Marcus in the dark, and Marcus still radiating with his typical anger.

"Kid's got an attitude from hell," Marcus commented, looking at Carol. He seemed to be sizing her up, his eyes half narrowed, his jaw locked. Had he heard what Owen had said? Was he afraid his secret was out? "Can't imagine where he got it from."

She retained all emotion, only shrugging as she headed for the door. She knew Carl was on watch inside, that, despite his size and youth, he was a stalwart protector of the people closest to him. She didn't like being out here all alone in the cold and darkness, being looked over by a predator who seemed to be sniffing out his next meal. She didn't like the possibility that this man had killed another person in cold blood.

He grabbed her arm, stopping her from leaving. "Hold on, don't do that."

She was stiff as she pulled uselessly in the other direction. "Let go, Marcus."

"No, we ain't doin' that again, I learned my lesson." He released her and stepped in front of her, blocking her way to the door. He crossed his arms on his chest and tilted his head sideways. "Why are you so afraid o' me anyway? I ain't half Dave's size and you buddied up with him."

"Dave is a good man," she replied coldly.

He accepted that with a hum, glancing back toward the door and then focusing completely on her. She'd never noticed until this moment that his eyes were a unique shade of hazel. They were usually hidden beneath a condescending squint. She also realized that he wasn't squinting at her, but he'd let his eyes widen to let in more light – granted, it was moonlight and it only served to make him look more like a villain. He was trying his hardest to look a bit less than threatening for her benefit. It was almost working.

"Just listen for a change, lady, I-"

"Carol."

"What?"

"My name's not 'lady,' it's Carol."

He snorted, seeming to appreciate her irritation. "Well, listen, _Carol_." He put special emphasis on it, full of both sarcasm and mocking. "I don't want no more issues with your boyfriend. He says he wants me to pull my weight, so I will. You guys are goin' out again tonight. Take me with you."

XxX

Daryl killed a possum and two raccoons that night, carefully gutting them and organizing the meats to be salted and dried. He brought Owen out and explained the process, offering the kid one of the furs for taking care of it while Daryl was out on a run. He was in a bad mood to start with, dragging his feet and reluctantly listening, but he brightened when Daryl told him about his new hat. He vowed to spend all of his time working with the meat to earn it. Leaving him to it, Daryl entered the prison at half-past eleven, finding many beds already set up and occupied along the right wall. The kids had bundled onto one mattress to listen to Beth and Carol tell them a cutesy ghost story, while Carl lingered in the background, pacing with his hand on his gun.

"Is it almost time?" Carl asked in a whisper, following Daryl to the base of the steps and sitting with him. While he spoke, he watched the ghost stories going on just a few feet away, seeming to find no amusement in them.

He'd touched Carol's shoulder on the way past and, as Daryl took a seat, she turned and smiled at him. He smiled back. In response to Carl he motioned up toward the windows, which always showed the glow of the moon despite the sheets hanging over them. "Moon's gotta peak. That's why they call it midnight, not almost-night."

The story ended with a chilling, 'and they never saw him again,' and the crowd dispersed. Carol went with Cane to set up his bed, refitting the sheets and tucking the comforter around him. She kissed his forehead and then went to Daryl and Carl, sitting a step above them and leaning heavily on her elbow. She looked exhausted. "Watching kids was so much easier when you didn't have to worry about walkers."

Daryl, leaning on the railing and watching the kids get ready to go to bed, saw no reason to respond to her words. His mind was elsewhere, wondering if his words had had any effect on Marcus, wishing he'd cut a little more carefully to avoid splitting the guts of that possum. Carl began twirling a knife in his hands, polishing scuffs out of the metal. The prison became quiet.

"Marcus wants to come with us."

Carl jumped up immediately, "No. No way. That guy's nuts!"

"Carl."

"_No_! He's worse than Merle – he tried to hurt Carol! How can you just-"

"Carl."

"Daryl he's just trying to get us alone so he can-"

"_Carl_!" Finally Daryl let his voice boom. He could hear movement in every cell. The people on the mattresses sat up and looked fearfully in his direction. Carl's mouth shut with an audible click and he stared back, surprised to be snapped at by someone who was usually patient with him. Daryl felt the pressure of once again being the group's biggest douche.

The kid frowned, looked distrustfully between Daryl and Carol, and then left for his cell. He pushed past Dave, who was just coming outside to check out the noise. Rick stepped out of his cell with Judith in his arms, looking at Daryl and waiting for an explanation. He didn't have one. He just turned and left the cell block, climbing to the roof to separate himself from judging eyes. He was embarrassed to have made such a scene, to bring violence back into their peaceful home. But Carl had provoked him. He was just pointing out everything that Daryl had already thought about, everything that crossed his mind every time he heard that man's name. He didn't need to hear it again, and certainly not from such an apathetic kid. He didn't regret snapping at him, but he regretted his tone and the context. Carl didn't need to be shot down in front of everyone.

Now that he was alone Daryl let his thoughts wander away from the scene in the prison to the request made by Marcus. He immediately felt angry. Marcus had approached Carol again, deliberately ignoring Daryl's warning. His affection and possessive nature toward that woman made him feel that he should act in some way, deter Marcus from ever getting near her again, but he knew she wouldn't appreciate that. She was strong, she could take care of herself. She didn't need a white knight to save her. But Marcus was a strong guy, a former fighter, a master of hand-to-hand combat; he could easily overcome most of the group members, no matter if that member was a man or a woman. He was dangerous, that much was true.

Carol appeared after several minutes, sitting at his left shoulder and staring out at the bright half-moon. She seemed weary, perhaps because Daryl was tensed up in anger. Once he realized he was making her uncomfortable, he relaxed and tried to think through it logically. Of course Marcus would ask Carol and not Daryl or Carl. Just sitting beside her now Daryl could feel her compassion, her incredible empathy; she was an emotionally-driven woman, and a mother with a lot of love to give away. She was the most approachable of their expedition, and she wouldn't immediately deny him such a request. She would think about it. She wasn't a snap-decision person like Daryl, or a passionate protector, like Carl.

The reflexive anger he'd felt when he imagined Marcus near Carol began to fade, replaced by anxiety and heavy thought. He imagined what it would be like to bring that spiteful man along, how aware Daryl would have to be to keep the group safe with an antagonist among them. As much as he hated the comparison, Marcus was very similar to Merle in the way he got under people's skin. He could always make a group argue, he could always drive them apart. Daryl would have to keep a closer eye on Carl to put a lid on that kid's hatred, and he'd have to keep Carol with him at all times, fearing that what had happened to Maggie would happen to her. Marcus had never proven himself so violent, but the possibility was there. He had the potential. Daryl also thought of Marcus' sons, capable young boys bent under their father's shadow. He'd never seen Marcus hurt them, but the potential was there.

The idea arose in Daryl that he could figure out what made Marcus tick. No one was born to be a jackass; their lives shaped them into what they were, and, despite the common opinion of his group, Daryl knew that people could change. He had changed because of Carol. Rick had changed because of Judith. If he could change Marcus, he could make him more productive to the group, less of an outsider and more of a functional gear. Maybe he'd even treat his kids better.

"Fine."

His words made Carol jump. She nodded when he looked over, releasing a breath she'd been holding. In a tender gesture, she laid her head on his shoulder, her hand resting on his knee. He knew that she was still frightened of Marcus, that there was something complicated going on in her own mind, but she didn't bring it up. He didn't ask. As much as he wanted to fix that man, as much as he wanted to improve the lives of those kids, he couldn't let him get too close to her or Carl. He was no prize-fighter himself, but he could handle it if Marcus turned on them. What he couldn't handle was something happening to Carol – he hoped he sent that message when he laid his hand on top of hers.

"You thinkin' the same thing I'm thinkin'?" he murmured, not wishing to ruin this moment, but unbearably curious of her silence.

She nodded into his chin. "He can change."

XxX

At midnight, Carol went to retrieve Carl and Daryl, his mind cluttered with all things Carol, went to track down Marcus. He was climbing down the front ladder when he heard soft voices in the courtyard – Owen and his father. He crept closer, wishing to hear what they were saying. They stood by the game Daryl had left Owen in charge of, their figures outlined by the moonlight. The kid was staring at the ground, tears glittering like precious gems on his cheeks, and Marcus was speaking quickly, seriously, and in an aggressive tone. Daryl couldn't make out a word of it, but the context was enough for him.

He stood straight and approached, unable to watch a father scold his son for no reason other than personal pleasure. Seeing him, Owen stood straight and wiped the tears away, looking to the meat as if to make sure it was still there. Marcus remained where he was for a moment, positioned between them, and then he turned calmly to Daryl and smiled darkly. It was a disturbing expression. "Time to fire up the bandwagon?"

Daryl nodded, glanced at Owen, and then headed for the SUV, forcing himself to keep moving despite the urge to comfort the sniffling kid. It was none of his business how another man raised his son. He told himself that, but there was resentment growing in him, similar to the kind Carl felt whenever he looked at Marcus. This kind of rage was combustive, stored away in his heart, waiting for the spark that would unleash it. That spark would be the moment he saw Marcus raise a hand to one of his kids, or to one of Daryl's friends. He knew that it would happen. He knew it like he knew he would lose Carol one day. It was a storm in his head, raging on, growing larger each time he found something horrible to expect.

Carol came out not long after the two men had gathered. Carl walked behind her, looking pissed, and he gave Marcus a powerful scowl, his hand on the hilt of his gun. Noticing this, Marcus held his hands up in mock surrender, taunting the kid.

"I wouldn't do that," Daryl said, motioning to Carl as he got into their vehicle. "That kid'll shoot you 'tween the eyes 'fore you can show off them fancy punches."

Marcus shrugged and got in beside Carl, leaving the front seats for Carol and Daryl. When the SUV was loaded and the gate was being opened up by Glenn, a sinking feeling struck Daryl right in the gut. What if Marcus was just what Hershel had feared? What if he was too dangerous to keep around Carl and Carol? What if he turned on them and left their corpses for the birds, leaving in the SUV with knowledge of where the prison was and what its weaknesses were? He understood Rick's hesitation about accepting new members, his protective stance against possible threats. It occurred to Daryl that he was the reason Marcus was still in the group, and if everything went south from here, it would be his fault.

These were his thoughts as he looked up into the rearview mirror, which gave him a perfect view of the questionable man in the back seat. For a moment he watched him, analyzing his face, wishing he wasn't so clever so he didn't expect so much darkness from him; and then Marcus looked up and met Daryl's stare, defiant, angry, challenging.

He secretly wished he'd said no, but it was too late now. He drove on into the night.


	6. The Cabin

_**CAUTION YOUNG READERS**_: **The following chapter contains adult material. If you are under the age of eighteen I must ask that you skip to the next chapter. If you are otherwise opposed to sexual activity between consenting adults, again, skip to the next chapter. I know this story is rated T, but this is one of the rare exceptions, because this moment is extremely important for these two people.**

XxX

Daryl was alone in the woods, exploring after butting heads with Marcus all afternoon. He knew that spending any more time with that jackass would roll him over the edge of a very steep cliff, and that he'd have to act on his desire to break the guy's ribs. He heard a rustle behind him and he twisted, expecting the worst out of this unknown stretch of land – he held his crossbow at eye-level, his finger locked around the trigger, the muscles in his arm taut as he thought reflexively to reach for his knife. When he saw it was only Carol, approaching from the general direction of the SUV, he dropped it and sighed, "You were _this_ close to a dirt nap."

She smiled slightly, holding out a few pieces of a spongy, sugary blueberry cake – Daryl, Carol, and Carl had shared the other half this morning, and this was what remained. The smell of the berries took hold and he tossed his crossbow over his back, taking the morsels and downing the smallest pieces. He broke the bigger section in half, handing an equal portion to Carol, and then he chewed his like a hungry wolf.

"You should be sleeping; it's almost dusk." He glanced up for emphasis, finding that the sun had only just begun to set. He knew that Carl would be sitting on the hood of the SUV, taking his post as guard very seriously, and that Marcus would be sitting inside pouting because Daryl had taken his knife away. He'd also given Carl explicit permission to shoot him. He took that very seriously as well. Daryl had expected Carol to be in the same place, watching over the kid and sorting out their supplies. She had a thing for sorting lately. But she'd followed him again, leaving the SUV without a weapon, wandering around without a clue about how to navigate the forest. That thought made him angry, and it showed in his voice. "You keep followin' me you're bound to do something stupid, like walk right into one of those assholes."

Her lips twisted into a sharp, indignant frown. He'd struck a chord, and it made a bitter sound. "I can take care of myself. I just thought you should eat something. If you didn't want it you could've just said so."

She turned and walked off, leaving him a few seconds to regret what he'd said, and a few minutes to follow her in the opposite direction of the parked SUV. When they came upon a massive fallen timber, she seemed to realize that she'd done exactly what he'd just warned her about. She stopped and folded her arms stubbornly over her chest, staring at the ground. The set of her jaw and the slight incline of her eyebrows warned him not to say 'I told you so.'

He walked to her side, his thumbs in his pockets, and stared at the timber, licking the remnants of the cake from his teeth to avoid talking. He was about to say something, anything, but a dark shape behind the tree caught his attention. A cabin. His heart jumped. Carol noticed it a moment later, her mouth opening; she looked at him questioningly and shook her head, "We don't know what's in there."

"That's a good reason to check it out," he responded, ducking under the timber and trotting toward the cabin. He pulled his crossbow into ready position, glancing constantly around himself, making sure Carol was still at his left shoulder. Despite her objection she seemed just as curious as he was. When they came to the back door, he threw an arm out to stop her, motioning to a walker wandering in their general direction. She held her breath and stepped slightly behind him, drawing her knife, while he dispatched it with an arrow to the head.

As he retrieved his arrow, Carol stepped inside, ducking to the right. He followed and went left, entering a long hallway with dozens of family pictures hanging along the walls. He loaded his arrow once more, taking a deep, preparatory breath before swinging into the first room. It was completely empty. No bloodstains, no bodies. He even checked the closet. Mostly thankful, he went straight into the next room, finding it in the same condition. The room at the end of the hall was also vacant, and it seemed to have been unoccupied even before the world went to shit. Daryl met up with Carol at the branch in the halls and they both turned frontward, heading for the sitting room. They passed the kitchen, which was empty, and a broken set of stairs – they listened, but heard no groaning or scratching from the second floor. The entire place had been abandoned.

Daryl lowered his crossbow. "Must've been a summer cabin, for huntin'," he offered, pacing around the front room. He turned and followed Carol into the kitchen, helping her check the cabinets for food. There was nothing.

The pair wandered the house for a few minutes, looking for any type of supplies. Daryl ended up in the second bedroom he'd checked – a little boy's room – and picked out some clothes that would fit the kids at the prison. As he was stuffing them in his pack, he heard Carol calling softly from the other side of the cabin. He went immediately, finding her in the master bedroom. She held a shirt up to his chest, humming as if agreeing with herself. "That'll do."

"What?" he wondered, setting his crossbow on the bed and rifling through the drawers. He found nothing interesting other than a half-empty pack of cigarettes and a butane lighter. He stored them in his pocket for later.

"Everybody needs new clothes every now and then," she responded, folding the shirt on top of the dresser and examining a pair of jeans. "What size do you think Rick is?"

"I don't know, let me ask him next time I see him," Daryl said sarcastically, opening the closet and stepping back in surprise. Carol stopped what she was doing and came to his side. Several boxes of crackers and chips had been stored in the top of the closet, protected by plastic bags and copious amounts of preservatives. "Jackpot," he mumbled.

Carol smiled and went back to looking for new clothes, leaving him to gather the food and stuff it into both of their bags. He sat on the bed, cleaning gunk from his arrow, and listened to her talk to herself, waiting patiently for her to finish.

"This… would make me look like a giant lemon. Or I could be a blueberry. Or a green bean." She sighed, tossing several shirts to the side. He watched them, noticing that each of them would've made her look fine. She was just being finicky. Suddenly she turned, holding a plaid tank-top up to her chest. She smiled sarcastically. "Biker chick, huh?"

He chuckled and stood, fisting the shirts from the floor and placing them on the dresser. "Seriously? You're being picky _now_? What about when you got that haircut?"

She punched his shoulder and laughed. He smiled. "Really, though," she said more seriously, dropping the tank-top and holding a pink shirt tenderly in one hand. "I know no one's looking, but it's nice to feel… to feel pretty."

"I feel pretty," he muttered, flipping his leather vest for emphasis. When she snorted, he took the pink shirt from her hand and unfolded it, inspecting it for a moment. "Here, put this on."

"Turn around."

He turned. A moment later she touched his shoulder and he looked back, cocking one eyebrow. "See? That's fine. Now let's go."

Sighing dramatically, she gathered the clothes and put them in her bag, working around the snacks he'd loaded up. He headed for the door but paused before he left – Carol stood looking in the mirror, her eyes half-narrowed as she judged herself. She didn't seem to like what she saw. He often found her gazing into mirrors around the prison as if there was something wrong with her face, with her body. He didn't understand it, but it bothered him. The conversation he'd had with Carl on the balcony came to mind; he didn't know what came over him all of the sudden, why he picked this moment to take the kid's lame advice, but he couldn't stop himself.

He stepped toward her, grabbed her by both arms, and pulled her face to his, kissing her briefly on the lips. Still holding her just as close, he drew his head back and shook it, wishing to convey what he thought but finding inadequate words in his throat. "Don't do that. Don't put yourself down. You're beautiful."

She stared at him, mystified, and fire engulfed his belly. She leaned closer, breathing quickly, and, blinking, sought another kiss. He had the same quick breath as he bent to press his lips to hers, enjoying their softness, the way she curled into him. He had never realized how perfect such tenderness could be. It made him feel… better.

Unwilling to pull away when the kiss ended, he tipped her neck up with his nose and lightly kissed the skin on her neck. She leaned into him, her arm pressing into the back of his neck, her other hand gripping his forearm. He journeyed down to her collarbone, teasing her shirt down her shoulder. He felt her stiffen in his grip, her hand clenching around his arm, and she groaned.

That was too much for him. He knew what the next step was. He drew back, yanking her backpack straps from her shoulders and pulling her shirt up by the bottom. She lifted her arms, wide blue eyes on the wall behind him, and leaned closer to avoid letting him see her chest. Not dissuaded by this, he went on kissing her shoulders, her neck, and the soft skin of her cheeks. She groaned once more, pulling him as close as she could, and he reached back to undo her bra.

"Don't," she whispered, jerking away from him so quickly that she almost fell backwards. He stared at her in surprise, panting from the rate his heart was beating, and wished for a moment he didn't look so damn desperate. When he glanced down, unable to stop himself, he realized what was happening. His heart broke a little.

Her chest was scarred, much like his back. These marks weren't the product of a belt buckle, though – someone had pressed lit cigarettes into her skin. Something had scratched her. Someone had bit her, like an animal. Seeing his surprise she turned away, folding her arms protectively over her chest, gasping for a troubled breath. He stood there for a moment, dumbfounded, gaping like an idiot, and then approached.

He pulled his vest off and removed his shirt, pressing his bare chest to her back and wrapping his arms protectively around her. He rested his chin on her shoulder and leaned his head against her cheek, whispering, "You've seen my back. You don't have to be ashamed… not with me." She didn't respond, but her arms dropped. Her hands touched his hips cautiously, her fingertips skimming the scars that ran down his skin. "I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm not."

Finally she turned, taking a shaky breath and wrapping both arms around his neck. He pressed his hands flat to her back, holding her there. He could feel her heart hammering against him. He could feel her closed eyes pressing against the side of his head. He drew one hand up and stroked her hair, "We don't have to do anything you don't want."

She nodded into his hair, but then drew away slightly, touching her lips to his ear. "Daryl… I want this… I do. Just… be gentle." He hated the way she stammered around those words. He hated the way she looked at him, fearful, upset with herself. He took those words to heart, not just for that moment, but for the duration of their time together. His rough past was over, his harsh words, his careless insults. It all seemed so far away now.

Expressing that gentleness through the trembling of his hands, Daryl undid her bra. She pulled away, allowing the straps to fall and the garment to slide from her skin. His eyes wide, he pressed his forehead to hers. She sighed. He didn't lie around all day picturing Carol with her shirt off, but now he didn't know if he could keep the image out of his head. He almost laughed, imagining how much of a pig that made him, but he knew the moment didn't call for it. She'd take it the wrong way. Instead, he hit his knees and kissed her stomach. Her hands ran aimlessly through his hair. He laid a trail of kisses downward; her muscles convulsed under his mouth, extremely reactive to the directionality.

He placed both hands on the front of her jeans, glancing up for approval – she nodded, biting her lip out of nervousness and, he hoped, excitement. He undid the button, slid down the zipper, and pulled them gently down her hips, along with her underwear. She shivered as his fingertips slid down her thighs. Daryl took a breath, captivated, and helped her step out of them. He ran his hands back up her legs and gently kissed her belly, making her muscles jump again.

Still on his knees he undid his own jeans and thrust them off, finding himself irritated with clothing in general. He left his boxers on, whether self-conscious or afraid of freaking her out. He didn't stop to think about that. He rose, immediately lifting her against his body and heading for the bed. She wrapped her arms around him, laughing when he dropped her and then ended up on top. He kissed her smiling lips, and then her chin, and then the nape of her neck. She drew her legs apart and allowed him to slip between them.

Moments after lying her down, he moved his head back and stared at her, puzzled by the look in her eyes. Earlier she'd seemed so scared, so cautious, and now she had nothing but trust, affection, and loyalty in that beautiful gaze. It took him several moments to realize that she always looked at him like that, but now it was amplified. The strength of their bond seemed to grow stronger just from being here, open and unafraid.

Kissing her nose to draw out another giggle, he moved his hand down, pressing his fingers into her sex. She shuddered and gripped his shoulders, her eyes shutting. He pressed himself into her, finding her entrance and preparing to change everything about their relationship. She had opened her eyes again and she stared at him, finding a bit of that fear. "Gentle," she reminded, pushing and pulling his shoulders at the same time.

He nodded, breathing heavily once again, and pressed his forehead against hers. He entered her as slowly as he could, drawing a pained gasp out of Carol. Her arms, weaving under his, gripped his shoulders and pulling him closer. Her eyes shut and she leaned her head back. But she said nothing. He pressed further, suddenly turned on enough to act like a wild animal, but he took care to control himself. She still seemed to be in pain, clutching him, moaning, pressing her eyes so tightly it was a wonder the lids didn't break.

He drew away and her muscles relaxed. He went in even slower this time, examining her face, watching her for any type of change, any indication that he should stop. Still there was none. When he drew out again he couldn't help himself – there was something too strong in him, a desire that had been pushed aside for far too long. He went in hard and fast, burying himself completely in her body, overcome by heat and warmth and softness. The pull of her muscles and the way she buried her face in his shoulder egged him on. He continued in that fashion, drawing moans and groans from her. Her nails dug into his back, holding him closer, and one hand pressed against his lower back. Her feet touched his bottom, her heels completely tensed up. Her entire frame was trembling as she held onto him, and, eventually, he felt all of that energy build up to an explosive moment. She gasped loudly, lifting her body into his thrust, and threw her head back. He felt her inside coil around him, almost unbearably tight, and convulse around him. The sensation drove him over the edge and he came as well, not really caring that he was still inside of her. It took everything out of him. He felt weak, but relieved. Not once did he think of another woman. Not once did he wonder how long it had actually been. He only knew that, after so long fighting for his life and the lives of the people he cared about, so long feeling stressed and hungry, running on empty when there were still miles to sprint, he didn't feel it anymore.

She let him rest on top of her for a while, recovering herself, but eventually she shoved at his shoulders. "You're heavy," she explained.

He rolled away, resting spread-eagle on the bedspread and panting. Carol got up and hid under the covers, staring up at the ceiling. He debated whether joining her was worth it, and then he figured he was embarrassing her with his nudity. He slid in beside her and folded his arms behind his head, sighing heavily.

"We should get back," Carol said, ruining his mojo. She looked over and smiled that shy smile – it was adorable, he wished he'd had the energy to smile back.

He groaned, shrugged, and rolled toward her, pulling her into him despite her feeble protests. They lay together for a while, her fingers moving over his forearm, her toes resting on his feet, her back pressed against his stomach. He had his forehead against the back of her head, his eyes on her shoulders – he saw a few freckles peeking through dirty, tanned skin.

An earlier thought came back to him and he asked a question that, in hindsight, he should've known the answer to. "Who gave you those scars?"

She took it a lot better than he'd imagined, even responding in a strong, defiant tone. "Who gave you yours?"

He huffed, amused. "I asked first."

"Ed." She said it shortly, dismissively, but he felt her tighten at the mention of the name. He wrapped both arms around her and pulled her protectively to his chest, kissing the back of her head. She hummed deep in her throat. "He took what he wanted." Those words weren't meant to come out; he could tell as soon as she said them.

The idea of someone forcing her into anything made him angry, but he swallowed it, lifting one hand and cupping her cheek. He turned her face toward his, sat up on his elbow, and kissed her lips. She leaned into it, smiling. He smiled down at her. Though he didn't know how to respond to her words, he did have an answer to her question. He glanced backwards, as if he could see his own scarred skin, and said, "My dad was a real bastard. He drank. Smoked. Used his kids like piñatas. When Merle left he was more pissed than I'd ever seen him – really let me have it. Every time he saw me it was like he remember it all over again."

Her smile turned to a frown. She stroked his face, giving him a strange feeling of calm. "You deserve so much better…" she shook her head. He could tell she wanted to make it better for him, but he didn't understand it. What was done was done. But then he thought of what she'd said, how Ed had taken what he'd wanted from her and left her with those scars.

"You did too," he pointed out gently, kissing her forehead. He sat up, drawing her up with him. She sat between his legs, facing the other way, and he wrapped his arms around her again. She leaned into him, content, and relaxed entirely. He had never felt so peaceful, holding her as close as he could, knowing that she trusted him completely. He was protective of everyone in the group, but with her it was taken to a whole different level – he knew that if he ever lost her, if anything happened to her, time would stop. This life would end. His first real compassion for the group came when little Sophia was lost in the woods, and his last would be this woman, who'd changed him so wholly that he could never go back to the man he was.

He finally liked himself. He finally loved someone enough for that to happen.


	7. Crash

**Thanks for the reviews. I was also having a hard time believing that Daryl could ever be in a relationship with a woman because of his personality, but after seeing him with the baby in the show, I realized he is capable of tenderness. And, let's not forget, after he found Carol hiding in that closet, he said 'poor thing,' really sweetly, and he talks about his feelings a lot more with Carl and Merle. So he's going places.**

**I hope you enjoy this chapter as well, and feel free to review. Actually, I'll give you a dollar. A virtual dollar. In the form of a hug. A virtual hug.**

XxX

The sun set on their moment. Literally. The sun was setting. On her suggestion, Daryl hopped out of bed and got dressed, leaving so that she could dress without him ogling her. If he stayed, he knew he would. He waited by the back door, inspecting the darkening forest with narrowed eyes, loading an arrow in case they encountered something deadly. Though he knew the way back without a second thought, he went over the path several times in his head. She came out as he was tracing it a third time, handing him his pack and shrugging hers on, and then she ducked back inside to get something from the kitchen. It was a stunning cast iron frying pan. They walked slowly and carefully through the brush, eyes wide open, not talking for fear of attracting the undead. They approached the SUV cautiously, finding Carl asleep in the passenger's seat, his gun in his hands, and Marcus sprawled across the back seat, his head cocked back and his mouth open.

Daryl tapped on Carl's window and the kid jumped, turning his gun immediately and almost firing on his group member. Daryl and Carol ducked reflexively, taking a step back. Once he realized it was them, he unlocked the doors and slipped out, scratching his head with the tip of his gun. "Sorry. Where were you guys?"

"Found a cabin out there," Daryl explained, tossing his pack. Carl caught it, stumbling back into the seat as the weight hit him. "Pick you something for supper and then get some Z's. Long day tomorrow. We should hit the town by noon."

While Carl dug through his backpack, Daryl walked with Carol to the back of the SUV. She opened the trunk and tossed her bag in, pulling out a bag of chips for them to share. He kicked Carl to the back and they sat in the front – as he ate, he kept a close eye on the kid, making sure what he'd picked had enough protein in it. All he needed was to bring Rick back a pile of bones. He also watched Marcus, wondering if he was really sleeping, suspicious of his fly-catcher pose. Did people actually sleep like that?

"I bet you could make a killer omelet in this," Carl said as he admired the frying pan Carol had retrieved. He smiled at her. "Or, you know, pancakes."

She finished the chip she was eating and shrugged, laughing, "We'll see."

Doing a little fist bump of success, he placed the pan back where he'd found it and prepared his backseat bed, stacking two pillows against the window and pulling a blanket up to his shoulder. He turned away from Marcus, his face pressed into the glass, and started snoring within minutes. Carol and Daryl laughed to themselves, appreciating how simple sleep was for kids.

"Gotta get some calories in the morning," Daryl said, crumbling the bag and tossing it out of his window. Carol gave him a look of deep disapproval. He snorted. "What? Ain't no litter laws no more. 'Sides, might make a good home for a family of slugs."

"It's the principal. If we survive this, we still have to live on this planet."

"Want me to find a recycling plant?"

"Don't be a smartass."

Smiling, he licked his fingers. "Can't help it."

She didn't stay up much longer than Carl, yawning throughout their conversation about defenseless little animals and the harm plastic did to the soil. It was mostly her talking, and Daryl listening. She curled up in the half-darkness, pulling her thin sheet up to her chin and turning slightly in his direction. Her eyes slid shut. His mind wandered as he watched her, as the sun plummeted alongside the temperature. It became colder and colder in the car, so dark that he could only see the outlines of his companions. All four of them began to shiver. Heating took extra gas, and they couldn't afford to waste it, but he was teetering on the edge of that rule. Autumn was officially kicking the shit out of summer. He sat shivering for several minutes, thinking about how cold Judith would be tonight, how fussy Alex would be because his mother usually neglected to wrap him up properly. He regretted that he wouldn't be there to take over when she said she was fed up with the kid, or when Beth had to stay up all night trying to get the Judith to sleep.

Fed up with the discomfort of his friends and his annoying longing to go back to the prison, Daryl went to the trunk to retrieve the extra blanket's he'd packed. One was a thick wool comforter, the other a heavy flannel sheet. He opened the back door, woke Carl, and took his thin white sheet away, handing him the wool one instead. The kid curled up immediately and Daryl laid the white one on top, giving him some extra insulation. He did the same with Carol, waking her as he pulled her sheet away and carefully tucking the flannel one around her. She smiled dopily at him, her teeth showing in the moonlight, and he leaned down to kiss her forehead. He placed her old blanket on top, tucking both around her feet, and shut the door.

He stood outside for a while, watching the moon, listening to the sounds of the forest. He lit a cigarette, his eyes tracing the smoke clouds as they spun toward the stars. Again he thought about little Judith, who'd be announcing to everyone that it was time for her bottle, and of Cane, who always seem to wake up from a nightmare at this time of night. He realized that he was very much a part of the children's lives, not super sociable with adults, but hoping to keep the kids safe. It was an extra strain, and sometimes an annoyance, but he was struck with a predisposition to use every skill he'd ever learned to make sure the people he cared about were safe, warm, well-fed, and happy, even if he could never be any of those.

He heard Marcus get out of the SUV less than ten minutes after he began smoking. The other man was stretching and groaning, reaching up toward the sky, and then he approached Daryl in a casual, harmless kind of way. Daryl tried his best to ignore him.

"So, you hooked up with Carolyn. How was it?"

Daryl looked over, blowing smoke in the other man's face. "It's Carol, and you best shut your mouth. Don't think we're friends just 'cause I let you come."

Marcus held up his hands. It was difficult to make out his expression, but Daryl could feel that he was being taunted. It was hard enough to keep from hurting Marcus when he was ragging on other group members, or mercilessly mocking 'country folk,' but to hear him talk about Carol was like salt to a fresh wound. Though he knew she'd soon come to her senses about what had happened between them, that what they had couldn't last, he would always remember holding her that way, and that memory made him feel that he was still holding her, and that anyone who said her name in that tone was trying to rip her away. He didn't fully understand it, or approve of it, but he liked to think it was what his brother had warned him about – _"Once you let a chick get to you, it's like she's in your damn head, putting ideas in, changing you. Take the high ground, little brother. Paying for it'll cost ya less."_

Leaving his irritating, sharp tone on the back of his tongue, Marcus went for a simpler approach, one that made him sound like a human instead of a cartoon villain. "You got a spare cig?"

Daryl handed the packet over, and then the lighter, tucking both into his pocket when Marcus had a lit plug in his mouth. While they stood there smoking, gazing up at the sky, occasionally checking their surroundings, tensing when a fat squirrel decided to roll in the leaves, Daryl wondered what it was about Marcus that made him so strangely _polar_. One minute he was so irritating, so threatening, so daunting – a monster who needed to be stopped, a mastermind who was plotting the demise of the group, a freaking car salesman trying to scalp tickets to Hell – and then he became a man again, losing his pointed teeth and his tail, expressing human emotion and modesty in his young face. He was younger than Daryl, but not by much. He seemed sad, thoughtful, and longing, just like Daryl at the moment – was he thinking of his sons? His wife? His old home?

"You know, my kid likes her." Marcus spoke, interrupting the silence, and Daryl looked over at him. Their eyes met, dropping suspicion and hostility for a moment. "Carol," he clarified, seeing Daryl's confusion. "Cane can't get enough of her. Every damn night he comes to me, Carol this, Carol that, daddy look what Carol gave me." He took a puff of his cigarette and looked toward the front seat, watching Carol for a moment. "I wouldn't hurt her, you know. I ain't like that. That's not why I'm here."

"You bruised her arm," Daryl pointed out, struggling to remain casual. He couldn't keep the aggression from his voice, though it was obvious that Marcus wanted to have a civil conversation for once. Instead of keeping it at bay, he addressed it. "You do that again, you won't have to worry about bein' stuck on garden duty."

The other man sighed. "Yeah. I'm gonna apologize, if that matters."

"It doesn't."

Far above, clouds rolled over the stars and the moon, making it darker and quieter. Daryl was exhausted, but he didn't want to sleep. He directed Marcus into the car and started driving, taking them a hundred miles or so toward their destination, rolling ninety in what used to be a fifty-five. Carol and Carl were jerked awake when he was forced to slam on breaks, but Carl went straight back to sleep, his groggy eyes full of early morning anger. Carol leaned against the window and stared outside, her tired eyes barely seeing a thing. She said nothing.

He drove until his watch read four in the morning. He parked in a patch of trees off the highway, pulling the shades down on the inside of the car to prevent the dead from looking in. He reclined his chair, practically lying on top of Marcus, and rolled onto his side, clutching the keys in his right hand. His mind was still wired, but his body was shutting down, rejecting any source of tension that tried to awaken him. Had he locked the doors? Had he put that bottle where Beth could find it? Did he remember to give Glenn the first inventory list?

Thoughts swirled about, unfocused, pointless, incomprehensible. He'd finally hit rock bottom after going so long without a good sleep, letting his nights become more like his extended days. He needed it; granted, this was the worst place to crash. His last thought before falling asleep was of Judith's face. It's amazing how caring for a baby can imprint them on you, how the mind clings to their image, how the hands look for their bodies to pull them closer. He must've spent the night reaching out, searching for the kid in his dreams, but he didn't find her.


	8. Eileen

Glenn stood in the main hall, which supplied safe passage between C-block and the newly renovated E-block. Ten people had been laboring here all day, setting up candles to keep the hall lit, sweeping debris, scrubbing blood, spray-painting large labels on each side. Though it was long and wound several hundred yards alongside dangerous areas, he'd made sure that it was secure – still, there would be a guard stationed at each end for a while just to make the others feel safe. By now several groups had passed through, carrying supplies from one block to the other. Glenn greeted the newest arrivals, the Anders family, and their three children, Sam, Dana, and Richard; they were followed by some that had arrived just after the departure of Daryl, Carol, and Carl. Four more kids. Three adults, all of them able to work. The prison was becoming a sprawling town.

"Glenn!" Maggie skipped toward him, holding Alex securely in both arms. She presented the black-haired little boy with a sweet grin. "Eileen wanted me to look after him, said she had some work to do out in the garden." She tilted the baby boy up and kissed his forehead, giggling when he reached out for her hair. "Ain't he just the prettiest little thing?"

Smiling, Glenn leaned over the little boy and let him play with his finger. He hadn't seen Alex much since the day he was born because his mother, thin, elusive Eileen, preferred to keep him to herself. She spent all day in her cell with him – which she requested be perfectly private, meaning no roommate – and he was always crying. Glenn was surprised to see him so cheerful now, making baby noises that didn't make everyone's ears bleed. He knew Daryl would've loved to see it.

"Oh, here," Maggie pulled a clipboard from the pack on her shoulder, handing it awkwardly over the baby. She bounced him a few times to make up for it, distractedly explaining, "Daryl gave it to me when they checked in yesterday; I forgot I had it."

As Glenn began checking over the list, his enthusiasm growing with each useful item waiting for him in the store room, he and Maggie walked to the C-block side of the tunnel. He snatched a pen from her bag and began writing notes on the things he wanted to put to use, and the complicated contraptions he wanted to scrap for parts. When he found the 'seeds' row he chuckled at Daryl's estimation of the number; Maggie saw his smile and smiled in response, her face glowing.

They watched each other for a moment, content with the way things were going. "Look," Glenn said, pointing it out when Alex started blowing bubbles with his lips. A few of the others in C-block gathered to watch this monumental feat of itty bitty adorable-ness. Tyreese was grinning ear-to-ear, his arm wrapped tightly around Karen's shoulder; she had one hand on her massive stomach, biting her lip and smiling.

"Daryl picked up some more baby stuff on his run – toys, formula, onsies, blankets – looks like we're all set for your baby," Glenn told Karen, tapping his clipboard for emphasis. He knew she'd be worrying because she was always worrying.

"Thanks, Glenn," she murmured, grabbing his hand and squeezing it. She smiled at both of them, and then at the baby. "That Daryl is a godsend. And so are you. So are all these people here. It's like a family," she glanced at Tyreese, "It really is."

"Take it easy," Glenn advised, walking with Maggie to their cell on the first floor. He stood in the doorway while she played with the baby on the bed, drawing adorable giggles from him. Glenn couldn't help the smile on his face. He'd worked so hard every day since the arrival of the Woodbury survivors, but he'd never expected his work to pay off so perfectly. Three cell blocks were open, filled with living, breathing, thriving people, they were well fed, happy, sociable, and active around the prison, improving it with every project they took on, contributing in any way that they could. Their minds were allowed to wander away from the walkers, but they never completely left. The next step of his plan had to wait until Daryl and Carl got back, though, and until he got Rick's approval.

Maggie looked up, sensing that his thoughts had deepened. "You haven't talked to Rick yet, have you?"

He shook his head, sighing. "I don't know how to bring it up. I think… I think I want to get Daryl on board first."

"That's probably best," she agreed, her eyes sympathetic. "He'll like the idea. I told you, I think it's wonderful. People need to be prepared, even the kids. We can't risk the walls breaking and our group scattering like flies."

Not wishing to talk about it anymore, he took the seat opposite her and showed his cell keys to the baby. Alex gurgled and reached for them, his wide black eyes like twin stars in the low light. Glenn smiled and, as gently as he could, slid the kid up against stomach to keep him sitting up; staring around in fascination, as if he'd never been set up before, Alex took in the room. Maggie watched him with a hooded expression, appearing tired, but not enough to sleep.

A gun went off in the courtyard. Someone screamed.

Glenn leapt from the bed, swung around the corner, and nearly ran into Owen as he was trying to open the door. He yelled something at the kid, but his mind was racing too fast to figure out what it was. All he could do was burst through one door at a time until he found the sunlight and sprinted across the pavement. Dave was holding several people away from a body on the ground. Rick was just arriving, Judith in his arms, and he crouched near the body with a dark look on his face. Glenn went around Dave and stopped short, his breath leaving him.

"I knew there was something wrong," Rick murmured to himself. He stood up, stroking Judith's face as he spoke. "I knew there was something wrong with her, we knew it, Glenn, and we didn't do nothin' about it. _Damnit_." His scream echoed for miles. Judith began screaming in his grasp. Beth stepped up and mumbled something very softly to Rick; he gave up the baby and watched her hurry his daughter inside. He put both hands in his hair and sighed.

Glenn regained his right mind and turned around. "Everybody back inside. Tyreese, get them inside _now_." He turned back, staring at the body for a moment, stepping out of the blood that was surrounding his sneakers. He looked up and found Owen near Rick, holding the cell keys. The kid had been told to bring them to Rick if there was an emergency, and there he stood, his wide eyes on the dead woman whose skull was split open by a hot fragment of metal. It made Glenn sick.

"Here, I'll take them," he reached out. The kid handed him the keys. "Go inside and make sure the kids are okay. Tell Karen to stay in there. Tell Maggie what happened."

The kid ran off and Glenn stood there with Rick, gazing at the corpse that had been living only minutes ago. Their eyes met several times, both of them full of guilty thoughts, but they didn't voice anything. Glenn knew that this was their fault – Rick was the leader, but Daryl and Glenn were like his deputies, watching out for the things he couldn't handle on his own. Glenn was supposed to be watching over these people like his own flock, like his own group, and he'd let her lock herself away all that time with a screaming infant, falling victim to whatever demons had driven her to this place. Skull broken, splayed out on the pavement, everything she'd ever been painting the ground every shade of red.

Rick was the first to speak. He said they should wrap the body and take it for a proper burial. Glenn agreed and they enlisted Tyreese to help, leaving Dave to make sure that everyone stayed on lockdown in C-block. They carried her to the little graveyard where several other members of their group were buried and laid her down in a patch of tall grass. The grave was deep, and it took several hours to dig. None of them spoke throughout the process.

They returned to a murmuring crowd, eyes following them up to the railing. Glenn stood by Rick's side and gazed sadly at the ground, trying to contain his guilt while listening to his leader's words. Rick stood in silence for a moment, organizing his thoughts, and then he spoke. "We lost a group member today. Eileen… Eileen was real unhappy. All we can do is keep her name in our hearts and hope she found what she was looking for on the other side." He swallowed. The group was utterly silent. "I think of all of you as family now. I want you to know that. We have something going here, something that I never thought could happen. We got vegetables growing out there, and bedrooms, and carpets, and toys for the kids. We got enough food, enough water, and… and… I want you all to be happy. So if you're not happy, tell me. Talk to me. Talk to _someone_."

His voice got low at that point, taking on a seriousness that captivated his listeners. Even Glenn found his heart soaring. "You, all of your, have survived this long. You are _survivors_. You're gonna beat this world. We're all gonna beat this world."

XxX

Carol woke up as the sun was rising, her face pressed uncomfortably into the cold glass of the passenger's seat window. She sat up, stretched, and snuggled back into the blankets. Carl was awake, staring at her with narrowed, tired eyes, yawning every minute or so, and Marcus looked to have been awake for longer; he was sketching something on a yellow legal pad. He looked up when he felt her gaze, but looked back down immediately, continuing his drawing. Daryl was sleeping against the steering wheel, his mouth hanging wide open, drool dripping down into the floorboard. She wished for a moment that they still had cameras so she could take a picture and use it to blackmail him later.

She didn't wake him, conscious of his sleepless nights. Instead she got out, the blanket still around her shoulders, and checked their surroundings. Satisfied that the forest was as quiet as ever, she started a small fire and, using the pan she'd picked up, made some powdered eggs. The smell drew Carl out of the car. He sat with his blanket around his shoulders, staring lifelessly into the fire. Marcus also got out, wielding a long machete on his belt. He walked around the car a few times, checking the forest, and then he sat beside Carol and warmed his hands over the flames. Daryl was the last up, rising twenty minutes after her, and he came to the fire just as she was serving Carl his eggs. She made a plate for Marcus, for Daryl, and for herself.

They ate in silence, too cold and tired to entertain conversation. At about seven they cleaned up and headed out with Daryl at the wheel – he stubbornly refused to let anyone else drive. He'd taken them a hundred miles in the dead of night, leaving them with no more than one-fifty to go; they'd hit the town by nightfall and camp out again, beginning their exploration on the following day. They could've gone a lot faster if they didn't have to get out every now and then and push cars, bodies, and walkers from the road – they ended up taking three lengthy detours around road blocks, encountering some ravenous undead along a farm road and narrowly avoiding the sharp edges of a broken down silo. From the farm, they took the mother load of seeds, farming equipment, and overalls. They also stopped at a convenience store fifty miles down the road and picked up some canned food, plastic bags, and hygiene products – Carol wouldn't let Daryl take the beer, no matter how much he argued.

The latter part of the day was spent clearing a massive wreck off of the road, navigating tiny gaps at about five miles per hour, and hiding from a herd of walkers that was passing through. It took three hours to move the wreckage and get the car rolling again, but they found another wreck a mile down the road and started the entire process over. Night fell before they reached the town, giving Daryl an excuse to stay up late. Carol stayed up watching him think, passing out at about eleven and awakening to his voice at midnight. They'd arrived.

"We'll sleep here and go out in the morning," he said, peering out of his window. They could all see the glow of fire further down the hills. The town was more like a massive neighborhood sprawling around a hospital, which seemed to be surrounded by lunging bodies. She shivered, imagining being eaten alive upon being captured. Daryl pulled himself back in, rolled up the window, and looked at everyone in turn, his voice serious. "The Governor's cronies marked this place as a red zone, but it was one of the first places evacuated because of the civilian population. I don't know what we'll find, but we're all carryin' duffels and guns," he looked pointedly at Marcus, and then Carl. "If anything goes wrong, find a way back here."

Carl looked over at Marcus, his eyes narrowed with distrust, and then he curled toward the window and prepared to get some sleep. Marcus turned the other way and leaned into his muscled arm, his eyes shutting. Daryl looked at Carol, his expression dark, and handed her the gun he kept on his side. "Here, just in case."

She handled it, wishing it didn't feel so heavy in her grasp. She hadn't had to fire a gun for a while. "What else did they write about this town?" she wondered, watching his face for any change that would indicate a lie.

There wasn't a change. He didn't even blink. "They found survivors here, before it got overwhelmed. They weren't able to take any supplies because… the gunshots drew the walkers."

She stared at him. "What… what do you mean? Gunshots? If they found survivors-"

"Get some sleep. You need it." He reached over and flipped the safety on her gun, making it all the more dangerous. She set it on the dashboard and crossed her arms, gazing outside, thinking of the Governor and his dark soldiers. She knew she would have nightmares tonight. What did this town have in store for them? Why was Daryl being elusive? Why did he sound so… disturbed? And then there was the prospect of Marcus carrying a gun – she still wondered about what Owen had said. Had Marcus killed his wife? With a gun? With his bare hands? She looked back, but it was too dark to see him now. The back seat was a mystery three feet from her face. She yawned. Tomorrow she would see what Daryl meant. Tomorrow they'd sweep the town and gather supplies just like they always did. Tomorrow everything would be normal, and they'd be back on the road to the prison in no time.

She curled sideways. At some point she felt Daryl's lips on her cheek, whispering something, but she could've been dreaming. She thought she heard a dog bark. She thought she felt a breeze.


	9. Night

**Thanks for the awesome reviews! I'm working on getting those virtual hugs, but, you know, the printer isn't big enough to scan the entire span of my arms. So have this for now. ***_**Hug***_** How was that? Fantastic, I'm sure.**

XxX

Daryl was the first to wake up that morning, attributing it to the anxious dreams that had plagued him throughout the night, bringing the horrendous stench of dead bodies back to his nostrils. His least favorite passenger was also to blame – that thick-headed douche had gotten out of the SUV to 'go walking' in the woods, and before he could take two steps, he was surrounded by walkers. He was lucky to be alive, lucky Daryl's reflexes kicked in. If he'd taken a second to consider how much Marcus irritated him, he might've let the dumb bastard die. One less mouth to feed. As it was, they fought side-by-side until the way was clear. Daryl wrenched his shoulder avoiding the bite of a particularly strong, well-fed walker and, when they loaded into the car to hunker down for a while, he spent an hour digging his fingers into his muscles, trying his damnedest to make the pain stop. It kept him up, and just as he was about to fall asleep around three in the morning, Carol began to mutter in her sleep, caught up in a nightmare; he leaned over her, drew her face from the window as one would adjust the head of a sleeping toddler, and tried to get her to wake up, using his softest tone to keep from disturbing the others. "It's just us idiots here." She eyebrows, which had been furrowed tightly as the nightmare began, relaxed a smidge, indicating that she'd heard him, albeit subconsciously. Recalling what she'd done for him once back on the farm, he leaned over and kissed her cheek. She stirred, a soft smile appearing like the flicker of a dying lightning bug, and then it faded and she sank into a deeper sleep. He sat back and watched her for a while. That also kept him awake, though it was probably just procrastination.

He gave up when the sky began to lighten. The sun hadn't reared its beautiful head just yet, but he could feel it approaching like a wave of warm air. It was still cold and windy when he climbed on top of the SUV to keep watch; his crossbow was like ice on his back, his wrenched shoulder going numb in a few moments. He was sure it wasn't a good sign, but it felt better. His nose was also numb, and his fingertips trembled. It was all he could do to keep his teeth from chattering, to keep his entire body from convulsing in a violent effort to get warm. Each breath was like ice rolling down his throat, stinging his nerves, making his eyes water.

Still, it was better than sitting in the car wide awake, fiddling with his arrows and unintentionally waking everyone up. He liked to see them sleeping, resting, even if he couldn't. And, for some reason, they had no problem being cooped up in a big hunk of metal, surrounded by walls and locks and screws. Daryl preferred the open air, hence the reason he still drove his brother's motorcycle and slept on the upstairs landing in the prison.

The sun rose and painted the clouds pink. Daryl slid off his coat and soaked in the sunlight, appreciating its warmth. Now that light painted the horizon, Micro didn't look like such a daunting place. It was just a neighborhood with swirling roads which seemed to form a massive circle around the hospital. There were walkers wandering around, but not too many to handle. The fires that burned like beacons had turned some sections of the town into charcoal, but left others untouched, moving toward the south on their way to no place in particular. It was everything described in the Woodbury documents – a sprawling suburban paradise build a few miles from a larger city, intended to be an escape for families who preferred to live surrounded by close friends and family. He wouldn't step foot in the big city (though he intended to glance at it before leaving the area) but this place was residential, and as soon as the walkers started popping up, the homeowners scattered like roaches. This would be the perfect place to scavenge. Glenn's eyes would pop out of his skull when he saw what Daryl jacked from these houses.

Not long after the sun rose Carol awakened, stretching and yawning as she stumbled out of the front seat. She went briefly into the forest, presumably to pee, and then she brushed her teeth with the water from one of their canisters. She started the fire, warmed up by it, and then began to make instant pancakes in her new favorite frying pan. Daryl hopped from the SUV and searched through Carl's bag, smirking when he found syrup. Grabbing another blanket, the one he'd never used for himself, he went to sit by Carol, syrup in hand. He laid the blanket around her bare, trembling shoulders and twisted the bottle in his hand, examining the label. Carol smiled sleepily at him, her expression exhausted, but content.

"Sleep okay?" he wondered, coughing when he found that his voice was husky.

She shrugged, reaching back and touching her neck. "I can't believe I'm about to say this – I wish I was back in my cell." She pressed both hands to her neck and rolled her head around. "If you find a neck pillow today feel free to use it as a birthday present."

One eyebrow cocked, he asked, "It's your birthday?"

"Tomorrow, I think. I don't know." She went back to cooking, placing two cooked pancakes on a plastic plate which rested on her knees. She poured the next ones and glanced up at the SUV, finding that Carl was still asleep. She handed the plate to Daryl. "Here: best I could do."

He nodded in appreciation, but set the plate beside him, scooting behind her and beginning to massage her neck. The last time he'd tried this, it had been a strangely awkward situation, but they were too tired and cold to bother with serious questions. He had to stop when his shoulder lost its numbness; he slid back to his spot and devoured his pancakes, listening to her stories about birthdays and the leaves changing, the way her fourteenth birthday party had ended in flames; literally, the magician caught on fire. Content to listen, he downed as many pancakes as she was willing to give him, drinking the rest of the Parmalat from the back once he was done. He opened Carl's door and prodded him, ordering him to go get some breakfast – in a good mood because of Carol, he even woke Marcus and offered him a spot around the fire.

Soon they were all gathered like a little group of hoboes, warming their hands, staring sadly at nothing, watching the flames dance when they could muster enough energy to raise their eyes from the ground. They weren't angry, but this morning was foreboding. They had an entire neighborhood to search, and whatever they found had to be carried back up to the SUV and loaded in an orderly way. When they finished, they still wouldn't be done. They had to loot the four-story hospital and get a few things that Hershel had requested. Even after they'd done all of that, they had to load up and drive all day again, no doubt running into a few problems along the way. There was nothing that could make this situation cheerful.

Daryl handed out the guns about thirty minutes after the sun rose, fitting Marcus with a small caliber handgun and sharpening his machete. He checked that the gun he'd given Carol the night before was loaded, and made Carl clean his silencer to prevent a jam. He went over some basic combat rules with Marcus; basically, he told him that if he broke from the group, he would be eaten like a lone gazelle in a crocodile pond. He kept his crossbow across his back and a loaded assault rifle in both hands, switching them before they left to make sure his first kill was quiet. They packed their bags with some precautionary gauze, water, and a midday snack – Daryl had the bullets in his bag.

"Let's roll." Daryl started down the hill, keeping to the road as to avoid the darkening forest. Their procession toward the city was slow and tedious, marred by roving walkers that they had to spar with. The others noticed how his shoulder was hindering him and stepped up to do most of the work, leaving him to give out the orders and keep his eye on the road. He appreciated it, but he felt useless without his other arm.

The road led onto a residential street, which was lined with houses. They stood for a moment at the fork in the road, debating, and then Daryl decided to go with Marcus, who he still didn't trust, and send Carol and Carl in the other direction. He knew Carl was a survivor, quick and intuitive, and that Carol wouldn't shy away from a fight. They could handle themselves. He couldn't afford to send one of them with Marcus, who was prone to making rookie mistakes. He would have to deal with the dopey fawn just beginning to walk.

As he and Marcus entered the first house, he saw Carol and Carl entering the house on the opposite side of the street, about five hundred yards away. It seemed like twenty miles to him.

Micro wasn't in the same condition as the previous town, Welcome. The residents had actually evacuated, taking most of their belongings and hitting the road early in the epidemic. Daryl and Marcus found canned food, blankets, useful pieces of wood, chunks of metal, and tons of paperback books from the good old days – they made twelve trips after searching just three houses, carrying cargo from a pile they'd created on the sidewalk. Between twenty and thirty walkers showed up around noon, putting them in a tight spot, but they managed to take them out with some good old fashioned hand-to-hand combat. By the time they were surrounded by bodies, panting, covered in blood, Daryl's shoulder had its own heartbeat. He tried to wind it to loosen the muscle, but it only drew a painful gasp from him.

The separateness of their group never really took effect because they kept meeting up at the SUV, loading boxes into the seats and strapping large objects to the top. They took a break at four, sitting atop the hill in the cold air and eating protein bars in utter silence. Four people lined up, gazing down at an entire town that was open for exploration.

"Oh, wow, you shouldn't be fighting with this," Carol was saying as they got ready to go out again. Daryl had taken his shirt off to examine his shoulder in detail, and she took it gently under her hands, poking and prodding at the heavily swollen joint. "Did you dislocate it?"

He shrugged, wincing when that motion jarred his shoulder. Carl and Marcus hovered behind Carol, gazing at the red skin like onlookers at the scene of a car crash. "Dumbass over here got pinned by walkers last night; I just bent wrong, and it sprained or something."

She resolved to take him to Hershel as soon as they got back, but reluctantly allowed him to continue searching the houses. He could've done without her approval, but he didn't want her to worry about him. She needed to focus on walkers and supplies, not him. If worse came to worse he could just use his arm like a battering ram. Unfortunately, the first house they entered after the break had six walkers in it, and they were ravenous. Marcus slayed three with his machete, but stumbled back when a fourth advanced on him. Daryl shot an arrow through its temple and lunged at the fifth, which was just coming from the kitchen. He drove a knife through its skull and fell with it into the wall. Exhaustion made him unsteady. Marcus came up from behind him, pulling a pocket knife from Daryl's belt and using it to kill the last walker – it was a teenager. They stood panting for several minutes, gathering themselves, and then they went exploring.

Daryl had to admit that Marcus was a good companion, at least for this part of the job. He was irritating as hell on the way there and at the prison, but he was useful in the field. Whatever his weight class had been when he fought professionally, he seemed to be several classes above it now, the power in his punches knocked the jaws off of walkers. Daryl admired his discipline, how he'd always fall into a boxing stance when he faced up against an undead opponent; he was always defensive, always moving, never letting his focus completely fall upon one of them. He was trying to prove himself, it seemed, after screwing up the night before, and it was working.

One-fifth of the town was done when they met up in the evening. Daryl called it a day and went out to hunt some real food – Carol sat down with Carl and they shared two different flavors of protein bars. When he returned, the fire was out and the sun was nearly gone. Carol was perched on the hood of the SUV, her eyes shut, and Carl was inside, staring out at the forest. Marcus was pacing near the trees, his hand on the hilt of his gun.

"Possum up," Daryl announced, carrying the dead animal by its tail. He kindled the fire and sat down, gutting the creature before selecting the meat he would cook. Carl brought him four sticks and he loaded them up. Everyone held their own kebab over the fire, turning it slowly, looking to Daryl for an indication of whether or not it was done. He kept shaking his head until the outside meat was charred, and then he allowed them to eat.

His group chewed in silence. He wolfed his portion down and tossed his stick into the fire, carefully cleaning the arrow he'd used to kill the possum. He drunk a full bottle of water at Carol's request and sat contently watching the fire as she inspected his shoulder. She suggested a sling. He refused. Still convinced that it was a dislocated shoulder, she advised him to pop it back into place, or to let her try, but as soon as she put pressure on it, he shoved her away, cringing.

"Don't be a baby," she scolded, moving back into place. "Hold still."

"Well don't push it like that," he growled, shrugging away from her as much as he could without knocking her off balance. He didn't want to hurt her, but she was hurting him. Finally, he used his other hand to push her out of her crouch. She hit the ground and smirked at him. He smiled slightly, rubbing his shoulder. "It's fine. It'll heal on its own."

She sighed in that dramatic way she had, that way that meant he was bothering her, but she was enjoying it too much to be mad. Carl, who'd watched her fuss over his elbow, got up and went back to the SUV, setting up his bed and shutting his eyes. It wasn't hard to tell that the kid was tired; his eyes had barely been open since their break at four. Marcus followed suit, yawning and stretching, bidding them both goodnight. Carol responded. Daryl didn't.

"Get some sleep," he told her, using another water bottle to put out the fire. He stared at the embers, hoping that the intruding cold would send her back to the car. She remained by his side for a moment, also watching the glow, and then she kissed his cheek and went back to the passenger's seat. Flustered again by her random expressions of affection, Daryl took his time getting into the driver's seat. She was already asleep, or pretending to be asleep, when he curled on his side and stared at the forest. His shoulder ached so steadily that it kept him awake for hours – eventually he blacked out again, unable to retain consciousness because of his all-nighter last night.

Quiet surrounded him. The hard labor they'd have to do for five days troubled him in his dreams, making him feel sore all over. Carol's gentle kiss made him aware of her every movement; he was drawn often from the middle of dreaming to look over at her, sleeping soundly with her face turned away. He dreamt of Judith, and Alex, and the kids at the prison. He dreamt of gardens and hospitals and bars and tall windows. He thought of what his friends were doing, what Glenn was doing with the supplies he'd brought, where Tyreese had decided to sleep that night – with his pregnant girlfriend, or with the kids on the ground, to make them feel safer.

These things swirled through his mind all night, though most of them he forgot by morning light. What stuck was the impression of family, and that made him feel brighter even when he was plagued by physical pain and fatigue. He was doing this for his family, bringing them food, supplies, and safety. He was doing it for them, so he could keep doing it until his dreams were eternal.


	10. Reunited (and Character List)

Seven days after Daryl took his group out on the highway, two familiar faces showed up at the prison gates, slowly being surrounded by the walkers that wandered on the other side of that thin metal barrier. Glenn, Dave, and Jackson, Anna's oldest kid, rushed out and killed four walkers, giving the kids enough time to drag their limping aunt through the gap, which was shut moments after the fighters retreated. Glenn took them to C-block and sent the onlookers away, trying to momentarily ignore his connection to the kids and address the adult. She stared at him, eyes full of tears, but couldn't answer. She didn't know English. Glenn turned next to the kids who'd left the group a long, long time ago, going with their parents to seek out family in a faraway place: Eliza, a little girl who stood as a painful reminder of Sophia, and her little brother Louis, who had grown several inches in height, and lost his sweet, round face. Eliza explained that they'd been driving by in a pickup, running on empty, and they'd noticed the signs of life at the prison.

Sending everyone that lived in C-block to their neighbors in the newly scrubbed D-block and the sparsely populated E-block, Glenn gathered Rick, Hershel, and Maggie to deal with the situation. Rick gave Judith to Beth before she left and, upon approaching the kids, he started laughing, unable to contain his joy. He looked at Rick and the laughter spread. They went into the dining area and set the kids on the closest table to hear their story, and they let their aunt, who was too exhausted to sit up, rest against the wall. Eliza told them that they'd found their family heading up the highway in Georgia, looking for them, and they'd joined into a large group and hid out in their grandfather's estate. But they were driven out when a massive herd passed through. Eliza and Louis' parents were killed, and if it wasn't for their aunt Alejandra, they would've been killed, too. She did her best to care for them, but they were starving.

"You guys grew so much," Rick murmured, going to sit by Eliza. He pulled her into his lap and rubbed her shoulder the way only a father does, wiping the tears from her face as she concluded a horrendous tale of survival. She had both of her small, trembling hands wrapped around his. "I'm sorry you lost your mom and dad, sweetheart. You're gonna be safe here." He looked at Hershel and nodded. "This is my friend Hershel; we met him a while back. He's a doctor. He's gonna look at your two, and at your aunt, and see if we can make you feel any better. Is that okay?"

Upon receiving the consent of the children, Hershel began. He mentioned everything aloud as he went, indicating when he wanted Maggie to retrieve more supplies. The kids were malnourished, dehydrated, had recently suffered frostbite in their toes, the tips of their noses, and their fingers, had lice and fleas, ticks under their arms, mats in their hair, sap sticking to their legs, and they were suffering from a severe protein deficiency, making them weak, tired, and sluggish. Louis had a long, thin cut on his ribs – it wasn't deep, but it had become infected. He found all of these problems in their aunt, Alejandra, as well as a fractured forearm, a badly sprained ankle, and a broken finger; Eliza said she fell into a ravine a few day ago.

Glenn got the green light to take the kids outside and scrub them down, assisted by Maggie, who carefully cut matts out of their hair. A while back he'd picked up flea and tick wash, and now it became useful as he scrubbed the children's dirty scalps, hoping to deter fleas and give them a little peace from the itchiness. He let them wash themselves where they could, getting the dirt off of their faces, arms, and feet, but he had to work on the sap the had hardened along their legs, and he had to carefully remove each tick from their skin. Glenn found callouses on their feet, and blisters on their heels and palms. Layer after layer of dirt filled the bucket and left the kids' bodies, making the bath long and tiring. When he was finally satisfied that they were their original shade of pale brown, he wrapped them up and marched them inside. He set them up on Daryl's mattress, dragging it down and laying it on the floor of Hershel and Beth's cell; Hershel wanted to keep a close eye on these two until they were healthy again. They stood dripping in towels while Glenn searched the loot Daryl had brought back – like always, he'd picked up a few dresses for little girls, and a few sets of robot underwear for boys. He also found a sippy cup, which he set aside to give to Cane. He also had Sophia's doll tucked away, and Glenn grabbed it, aware that it had once been Eliza's. He stood there for a moment regretting that Daryl hadn't been here to see them, that Carl hadn't been able to see that they were alive, that everyone didn't have to die in the end. He also wanted Carol to take them in like a mother hen, guarding them against his questions, against every other survivor in the prison.

Hours later, around sunset, the kids were perfectly clean. Michonne, who'd made a rare appearance after her own expedition, escorted their aunt out to get cleaned up. Maggie finished cutting Eliza's hair, leaving her with a tomboyish look that the kid seemed to appreciate. Glenn sat on Hershel's bed, telling the kids the news he'd been dreading. They were sad to hear about the people who'd died, but Sophia hit them the hardest. Eliza clutched the doll and blinked, tears running down her face. He made sure to tell them about Daryl, Carol, and Carl, though, and it made them brighten. The prospect of seeing Carl must've been more like a daydream.

Once he'd tended to their aunt, Hershel returned to his cell and got to work on Louis' stomach. Glenn walked Eliza outside to look at the courtyard, explaining how things worked around the prison, and then he took her back in to have a lump in her ear checked out. It was a flea bite. Maggie brought them some warm noodles, crackers, and chocolate bars – picked up by Daryl and Carol on their first trip. They ate and drank under the careful supervision of Hershel, who laid out the deal for them, making sure they knew they'd be eating what he wanted them to eat until they were back to a good weight. Glenn was glad to see they took a shine to the old man.

Eliza and Louis fell asleep with parts of their bodies wrapped in gauze, their mouths hanging open, their eyes flickering beneath their lids. Rick, Hershel, Glenn, and Maggie had gone into the dining room to talk about what was going to happen.

"We should put them in E; that's where Teagan is, and she's all alone with all them boys," Maggie suggested, her head resting heavily on her arm. She moved around the room as she spoke, dumping out the dirty water from the noodles, checking the firewood in the corner, setting out a box of cereal for the morning. She'd spent half of her day taking care of Alex, who'd become motherless five days before, and the other half cooking and cleaning up after Louis, Eliza, and Alejandra. She'd made it very clear that, tomorrow, she'd join rick in combat training.

Rick folded his hands on the table and nodded. "Yeah, that's a good idea. I'll talk to Gloria and Elizabeth, see if they'll get a room set up." He stretched both arms out in front of him, his eyes thoughtful. His day had been spent outside, and it showed in the deep tan forming on his skin. He'd started up a fitness regime with Diane, mother of three and former United States marine; it was compulsory for those who wanted to be on guard duty to get exercise daily, unless they could pass a test designed by Rick, Diane, and Dave. The three of them had passed it, along with John, Diane's husband, a former air force jet pilot, and Jackson. Glenn, Maggie, Tyreese, and Sasha were slated to take it at their earliest convenience, and those in Daryl's group would take it when they got back. Glenn could see the strain of dealing with that on Rick's face, along with the responsibility of caring for his daughter.

The group dispersed. Rick went to tell the others that they could come back to their cells; he also warned them that the new family was getting some well-deserved sleep, and that they should be quiet. Glenn and Michonne took Alejandra out of Michonne's cell and laid her down on one of the mattresses of the first floor, accepting her gratitude, but not understanding her words. Glenn

Glenn was left alone in the dining room, mulling over what had happened today. This was the second time the past had come back to haunt them – first it was Merle, and now it was Morales' kids. What if the Governor came to ruin what they had created? What if he was lingering outside the gates, putting their kids, their families, in his scope?

Glenn went back to his cell with these things on his mind, finding that Maggie was already asleep on the top bunk. He rolled onto the bottom bed, not wanting to bother her, and curled under his blankets. He hadn't noticed the cold before, but inactivity invited it into his body and gave him chills. He hoped that the kids had enough blankets. He hoped that Daryl had remembered to pack those wool sheets they'd been lucky enough to find. He hoped Karen wouldn't go into labor for just one more night, and that Cane wouldn't wet the bed again.

It did no good to hope.

He woke up at three in the morning to a terrible screaming.

XxX

CHARACTER LIST (This is the complete character list for this point in the story)

**Survivors – In the Prison**

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**Cell Block C**

_0o0 XxX 0o0 XxX 0o0_

**Rick Grimes** (second floor) – thirty-six; tall, curly brown hair, bold appearance and voice; blue eyes; Caucasian; former sheriff's deputy; strong leader, fragile mind.

**Carl Grimes** (first floor/with Dave) – thirteen; lean, strong, long brown hair, vivid blue eyes; Caucasian; troubled, conflicted, often disobedient.

**Judith Grimes** (second floor/with Rick) – four months; brown eyes, brown hair; Caucasian.

**Glenn Rhee** (second floor/with Maggie and Alex) – twenty-two; black hair, dark brown eyes; Korean; sometimes overly compassionate, but a fit leader.

**Maggie Greene** (second floor/with Glenn and Alex) – twenty-four; brown hair, pale blue-green eyes; slim build, steely personality; Caucasian.

**Beth Greene** (first floor/with Hershel) – seventeen; blonde hair, pale blue eyes; slim build, innocent personality, extremely motherly; Caucasian.

**Hershel Greene** (first floor/with Beth) – fifty-six; white hair, old blue eyes; lean, muscular build; wise, moral, and philosophical personality; Caucasian.

**Daryl Dixon** (second floor/upstairs landing) – thirty-seven; distinct blue eyes, dark brown hair; lean, muscular build; sports a crossbow at all times; rough, sometimes abrasive personality, protective of young children; Caucasian.

**Carol Peletier** (second floor) – forty-two; gray-brown hair, blue eyes; thin build; motherly, compassionate, empathetic, gentle; Caucasian.

**Ms. McLeod** (first floor) – seventy-two; dark gray hair, brown eyes; thin, fragile; can be abrasive, generally quiet and spends her time sewing or reading; Mexican-American.

**Dave** (first floor/with Carl) – forty-one; very tall, muscular, daunting military type; curly black hair cut short, dark brown eyes; gentle spirit, moral, wise; African immigrant.

**Marcus** (first floor) – thirty-three; muscular ex-fighter, quick and strong; hazel eyes, black hair; can be very abrasive, especially toward Daryl, antagonizes other people, often described as a villain; father of Cane and Owen, thought to have killed his wife; African immigrant.

**Tyreese** (first floor/mattresses) – thirty-four; tall, muscular, kind-faced man with a lumberjack beard; black hair, dark brown eyes; apologetic, understanding, empathetic personality; he is the father of Karen's baby, and the brother of Sasha; African-American.

**Sasha** (first floor/mattresses) – twenty-six; lean and capable; black hair, dark brown eyes; kind-hearted, understanding, and brave; sister of Tyreese; African-American.

**Karen** (first floor) – thirty-five; lean and strong; dark brown hair, brown eyes; brave, moral, and typically very selfless after losing her son, Noah; she is pregnant with Tyreese's baby; Caucasian.

**Alex** (second floor/with Maggie and Glenn) – three months; dark brown hair, brown eyes. Mixed-race, possibly Latino.

**Cane** (first floor/mattresses) – three; tiny, underdeveloped, crooked smile, tightly curled black hair, deep brown eyes; mute; son of Marcus, brother of Owen; pale brown skin, mixed-race.

**Owen** (first floor/mattresses) – eleven; thin, strong, brave; short black hair, dusty brown eyes; mean-spirited and angry most of the time, experiencing severe distress after the death of his mother, protective of his brother Cane; son of Marcus; pale brown skin, mixed-race.

**Aiden** (first floor/mattresses) – fifteen; orphan, mother died shortly after being taken in, sibling of Kylie; small, thin, lanky kid, freckles, curly brown hair, brown eyes; Caucasian.

**Kylie** (first floor/mattresses) – twelve; orphan, mother died shortly after being taken in, sibling of Aiden; tough, tomboyish, short, spikey brown hair, bright brown eyes; Caucasian.

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**Cell Block D**

_0o0 XxX 0o0 XxX 0o0_

**Diane Anders** (first floor/with John and Richard) – thirty-eight; married to John Anders, mother of Sam, Dana, and Richard; black hair, blue eyes; fierce fighter and defender, former U.S. marine; moral, mostly understanding, strict mother; mixed race, pale beige skin, visibly Mexican.

**John Anders** (first floor/with Diane and Richard) – thirty-seven; married to Diane Anders, father of Sam, Dana, and Richard; black hair, brown eyes; former air force jet pilot; quiet, stern, obedient, but opinionated; Caucasian, of Irish descent.

**Sam Anders** (first floor/with Dana) – fourteen; twin sibling of Dana Anders; lean, quirky kid with knobby knees; sandy blonde hair, brown eyes; adventurous, but not very brave; mixed race, visibly Caucasian.

**Dana Anders** (first floor/with Sam) – fourteen; twin sibling of Sam Anders; lean, strong-jawed; long black hair, brown eyes; adventurous, brave, protective of her brother, very much like her mother as far as confidence and morality; mixed race, visibly Caucasian.

**Richard Anders** (first floor/with John and Diane) – four; youngest son of Diane and John; jet-black hair and dark brown eyes; rambunctious, fearless, and energetic; mixed race, visibly dark-skinned.

**Asher Donovan** (first floor/with Rosemary) – forty-five; married to Rosemary; father of Mason, Hannah, and Seth; big guy, muscular type; lost his son from another marriage, Colton; tall, strong, capable; moral, understanding, obedient, fatherly, has a temper; Caucasian.

**Rosemary Donovan** (first floor/with Asher) – forty-seven; married to Asher; mother of Mason, Hannah, and Seth; small, plump build, friendly face; can be very abrasive, angry, and mean-spirited; Caucasian.

**Mason Donovan** (second floor) – fourteen; son of Asher and Rosemary; sibling of Hannah and Seth; lanky and awkward, but strong; brown hair, black eyes.

**Hannah Donovan** (first floor/with Seth) – ten; daughter of Asher and Rosemary; sibling of Mason and Seth; small girl, long brown hair, brown eyes; Caucasian.

**Seth Donovan** (first floor/with Hannah) – eight; son of Asher and Rosemary; sibling of Mason and Hannah; skinny, but strong-willed; black hair, blue eyes; Caucasian.

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**Cell Block E**

_0o0 XxX 0o0 XxX 0o0_

**Gloria** (second floor/with Elizabeth) – forty-eight; plump, heart-faced; gray-blonde hair, blue eyes; kind-hearted, motherly, fiery at times; mother of Elizabeth; Caucasian.

**Elizabeth** (second floor/with Gloria) – twenty-three; tall, average; dark blonde hair, brown eyes; rebellious, quick-tempered, and sarcastic at times; has a crush on Daryl; daughter of Gloria; Caucasian.

**Anna** (second floor/with Ian and Teagan) – forty-six; small, plump; dirty blonde hair, green eyes; spirited, happy, motherly, sometimes very frustrated; mother of Jackson, Ian, and Teagan.

**Ian** (second floor/with Anna) – four; black-haired, blue-eyed; inquisitive, brave, and a handful.

**Teagan** (second floor/with Anna) – ten; black-haired, green-eyed; quiet, reserved, thoughtful.

**Jackson** (second floor/with Mason) – twenty-six; son of Anna, elder sibling of Ian and Teagan; short, spikey brown hair, dark brown eyes; plump build, muscular arms; self-proclaimed geek, very intelligent, socially awkward, clever inventor; Caucasian, possibly Latino.

**Alejandra** (second floor/with Eliza) – forty-seven.

**Louis Morales** (second floor/with Alejandra) – ten; short brown hair, brown eyes; cared for by Alejandra, sibling of Eliza; former group member, now reunited; Mexican-American.

**Eliza Morales** (second floor/with Alejandra) – twelve; short brown hair, brown eyes; cared for by Alejandra, sibling of Louis; former group member, now reunited; always carries a beaten doll that she once gave to Sophia; Mexican-America.

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**Survivors – Outside the Prison**

**Philip Blake** (The Governor) – presumed alive.

**Caesar Martinez** – presumed alive.

**Shumpert** – presumed alive.


	11. Home

**Whew, I'm on a roll tonight. I had these scenes in my head and I just had to get them out before I went to sleep. I have the next chapter in my head, as well, so expect that soon. Just to point it out, the previous chapter has a character list on the tail end to help you put descriptions, ages, relations, etc. to the characters in the prison. There are so many, and that's really the easiest way to keep track (for me and for you). I put it there because I didn't want to spoil any arrivals or characterizations. That doesn't mean there won't be more arrivals, but, if a new list is needed, I'll post it in the appropriate place – not for a while, I'm hoping.**

**I want you to pay close attention to what's going on with Carol in this chapter. Real close.**

**Also, I want your opinion. Should Karen's baby be a boy or a girl? I'm so conflicted. I think Tyreese, being a big, beefy guy, would be adorable with a little girl, but a man can be just as adorable with his son. I need help.**

XxX

They spent their last, tiring evening in micro hauling a thousand-pound horse trailer, courtesy of one of the innermost houses, up three miles of harsh incline, unable to stop for fear of letting the trailer roll all the way to the bottom. Once it was hooked they loaded up the supplies they'd been stacking beside the SUV – they'd run out of room in the trunk on the third day, when they'd begun exploring the hospital, and now they had enough room to do another quick sweep for things they'd regretted to leave behind, this time going door to door and leaping out of the car like ravenous trick-or-treaters. Carol drove them from block to block, Carl dashed in and out of houses, and Daryl and Marcus forced vehicles into neutral and shoved them out of the road. Though they were quick and quiet, they soon drew the attention of several large groups of walkers, and were forced to turn around and drive a good distance out of the town. It was around nine when they finally took the road around Micro to the city Daryl wanted to take a peek at. Carol drove, letting Daryl rest his shoulder, which had been getting worse every day.

"Holy shit, look at 'em swarm," Daryl exclaimed as they came upon the first section of the city, a small, outlying neighborhood connected by sprawling businesses and a glistening lake. It was dark out, but the group could see thousands of bobbing heads moving all over the streets, crowding it like ants. Carol felt uneasy all of the sudden, reminded that, while they had the ammunition and the brains, the walkers had the numbers. She pulled Daryl back into the car by the tail of his shirt – he'd been hanging out of the window like an excited hound – and shook her head with worry. He frowned, glancing at Carl and Marcus. "What? They didn't see me."

She rolled her eyes, "If you keep doing that, they will. Let's just go. I don't like the looks of this place."

"Yeah, I've never seen so many walkers," Carl added. His head was right behind Daryl's seat, his eyes shining in the darkness as he watched the undead shuffle in circles just a few hundred feet away. Marcus nodded in assent, having leaned closer to get a better look.

Daryl, realizing he was outnumbered, shrugged and sat back, rolling his window up to shut out the cold. He pulled a large, folded map from under Carl's feet and shined a flashlight on it, directing Carol to the left. As she drove, he kept his eyes on the map, marking through different places. He wrote short notes on different parts of the town, and scribbled out the entire city in an aggressive fashion. Carl and Marcus sat back, perhaps disturbed by Daryl's suddenly irritated mood, and Carol kept her eyes on the road, sensing that no one wanted her to start a conversation. She hated the silence thought. For days they'd worked in complete silence, not talking about the gruesome scenes they had discovered, not chatting during lunch breaks, barely interacting when they awakened each morning and only grunting when they met up at night. Three days in they switched groups – Daryl sent Marcus out with Carl, just to test it out. The arrangement worked, and though Carol was content to spend more time with Daryl, he was always in the same mood and she was afraid to talk to him. Following his own new resolution, Daryl didn't speak for two hours.

"What's that?" Carl jumped from the backseat when their headlights passed over a building. Carol looked questioningly at Daryl and then pulled over. Daryl passed out flashlights and they all got out, doing a quick scan for walkers before approaching the little log cabin.

The peculiar thing was that it was surrounded by fields. Most of the places that were all by themselves along this road had been completely surrounded by woods, making them too dangerous to consider a pit stop; after all, there could be hundreds of walkers lurking in the shadows. But wintertime had killed the long grasses and the corn stalks, allowing them to see for miles. The closest walker was on the other side of a deep ditch, some six hundred feet from them and the road.

They walked in a cluster, Carol at the back with Marcus, Daryl and Carl fully loaded at the front. Daryl checked the front knob, and then enlisted Carl's help in jimmying the lock. Carol and Marcus stood at their backs, facing the road, watching for walkers who might've heard their tires, or seen their headlights.

"Wait here," Daryl ordered. He and Carl disappeared inside.

The adrenaline of finding this place soon faded, and Carol was struck by the temperature. She'd forgotten to put her jacket back on, finding that it irritated her while she drove. She glanced over at Marcus, whose skin was dotted with goosebumps, and smiled as she realized they'd made the same mistake. He looked at her, cocked an eyebrow, and then looked away. Her smile faded at his coldness. Stung, she told him she was going back for her jacket and offered to bring him his. He refused with a rough shake of the head, not even speaking. She shrugged it off and headed for the SUV, circling to the front seat. She hadn't even closed her door.

While she was pulling her jacket on she felt something on her neck. No, there was nothing there, but she felt it deep in her flesh, crawling around, demanding attention. It was one of those powerful instincts that closes your throat, that forces you to stop and analyze the situation you just walked into. Adrenaline surged up Carol's body and she turned, horrified by what she saw.

Walkers. A group of them, just climbing out of the ditch. They'd been in lower ground so the beams of their flashlights hadn't caught them. They were less than ten feet from her, moving eagerly now that they smelled her heart beating, and there was no running around the car – the door blocked her escape, and another was coming out of the ditch near the rear. She immediately dove inside, pulling the door shut behind her, crawling frantically to the passenger's seat and almost falling in her effort to get out. She looked up briefly, seeing Marcus tense up, and then she ducked her head and sprinted for the house, not even taking a breath to quell her burning lungs.

A gunshot went off, and then another. Two bullets whistled by her head. Two bodies fell. She hit the front porch – literally, she tripped and slammed into it headfirst – and scrambled up the wood, searching for the rifle she'd set down upon getting assigned to keep watch. More rounds went off, flashing in the night. Carl and Daryl came pounding through the front door, taking up posts on either side of Marcus and dispatching the remaining walkers.

Moments later they were dead, and she was being pulled up by her arm. Daryl almost dragged her back to the SUV and tossed her at the passenger's seat, jogging around the front and narrowly avoiding the hands of another walker. Carl shot it as he was getting in. The second Carol closed the door, Daryl started the car and they raced down the road, the horse trailer nearly tipping. The trees flashed by, the side of the road a blur of black ice.

Carol nursed her face, finding that she'd cut her nose and bit her lip when she fell onto the steps. Her heart was still beating at an incredible rate, trying hard to recover from such a close brush with death. The adrenaline calmed and let her face ache a bit, but the cold air soon numbed it. The cold numbed everything. She was pleased to find that Daryl was taking them back to the prison; he turned around about six miles up the road and headed back, avoiding walkers like they were traffic cones. The group stayed alert for several hours, but the drive was smoother this time. They'd cleared the debris already, and it was a straight shot from here to their family and friends.

Marcus was asleep first this time, having acquired a concussion two days ago. He was usually drowsy around this time. Carl was alert until midnight, but eventually he curled against the window and rested his eyes. Carol was unable to sleep, be it the sudden pain in her stomach – she knew she shouldn't have eaten the possum Daryl killed – or the memory of turning around to see those walkers coming at her. Every time she closed her eyes it came back in brilliant clarity, terrifying her with the thought of death. She knew she shouldn't have been afraid, not after so long dealing with it, but she didn't want to die, and the prospect of being killed scared the hell out of her.

"Hey," Daryl spoke up in the last leg of their journey. She recognized the signs on the side of the road and knew there were only hours to go. By this time she was staring ahead, completely lost in the glare of the headlights and the twinkle of distant stars, shivering, daydreaming, shifting from side to side. When she heard his voice she blinked and glanced over, knowing that she looked crabby. He looked the same way. His voice was gentle despite how he'd been acting lately. He reached over and grabbed her hand, squeezing it, as he murmured, "It's not your fault."

She actually chuckled, shoving his hand away. "I know that, jackass."

He frowned indignantly, glancing between her and the road. After a short time of consideration, he shrugged. "Yeah, yeah, right…" He scratched the back of his neck, as if looking for a distraction. "Pretty stars."

"Nice weather we're having."

They laughed at each other for a moment, giving into the old pull of friendship. Carol didn't like that he was making this awkward, acting like they hadn't spent an entire week working side-by-side even after making love in that cabin. They hadn't spoken of it, sure, but that didn't mean it was some evil thing that never should've happened. She didn't know what it meant, but it wasn't bad. It couldn't be. She watched him as he drove on, apparently running out of things to say, and brought that memory to the front of her mind. It made her cheeks heat up. Who would've thought a man so prickly on the outside could be so beautiful? Looking at him now, she was sure that she loved him, sure that, after so long without an idea of what it meant, she could define love clearly in her head. It was friendship, it was companionship, it was trust, and respect, and affection. It was wanting to slap him sometimes, wishing he'd change his attitude, and then sharing a moment where they both laughed about how stupid they were.

Her thoughts about love gave her peace, and she finally fell asleep only an hour from the prison. It was nearing early morning. She dreamt short, troubled dreams that she'd never be able to remember. She remembered feeling cold and uncomfortable, upset about something, pained by something, but it passed, and she barreled into complete blackness.

XxX

Glenn was on guard duty when Daryl finally started down the prison's long, winding road. He looked around, checking for new things that Glenn had employed, finding a new vehicle parked in the grass and several new plots of vegetables planted on the opposite side of the yard. He pulled through the open gate and slowed, rolling his window down, to smile at Glenn as he walked with him to open the next gate. He'd never been so happy to see that guy. Daryl parked on the basketball court, which was typical when there was a lot to unload, and slid drowsily from the front seat. Glenn wrapped him in a hug, disturbing his numb shoulder; he allowed it for a moment before he pushed him off, grumbling, "Whoa, whoa, it was just a week."

Following him to the trailer and helping him let down the door, Glenn said, "I'm never letting you leave again – seriously, nobody listens to me because I don't have a crossbow and shirts without sleeves. Oh, jeez, wait till you see who got here yesterday; you'll never believe it."

They both loaded up on boxes and headed for the prison. Daryl heard half of what Glenn said, but he let the other half simmer in his short term memory and die, like a lit match tossed into the ocean. He gathered that two children, two of their old group members, had returned after a long and trying journey across Georgia. Eliza and Louis. That news stuck because Glenn reminded him of Sophia's friendship with the little girl, and, though he'd never interacted with them in the old days, he could imagine building a relationship with them now to help them deal with losing their parents. After all, he knew what that felt like. Glenn also told him about the Donovans, and a military family – Anders – who'd come after he'd left. The influx of new members was attributed to the timing. It was nearly a year and a half now since the entire event had started, and people were losing hope in holding out. They hit the road to find help, either running out of supplies or patience. Most were killed. Those with some special quality made it through. They were the lucky ones.

After three trips Glenn stopped Daryl from picking up anymore boxes. "Here, take them inside, I'll get Maggie and we'll take care of this." He motioned to the car, and its sleeping in habitants. "Then get some sleep. You look like shit."

Daryl snorted, "So do you, but I have an excuse."

He did the same thing he'd done upon returning from their first trip – he carried Carl in, carried him down, had a short talk with Dave, and then went back outside. He woke Marcus and suggested he go inside before the cold made his nap permanent. He carried Carol in last, having lost all of the energy acquired as he pulled through those familiar gates. The inside of the prison was warm and inviting, filled with children, with families, with friends he'd come to appreciate more than anything else. He pushed through Carol's door, tucked her into the bottom bunk, and then headed for his own bed. The mattress was gone. He felt a little tinge of anger, but he was too tired to go anywhere with it. It was too late to worry about it.

He went back into Carol's cell, carefully closing the makeshift curtains, lighting the candles that had been blown out during her absence. Recalling their awkward conversation earlier – awkward only for him, it seemed – he thought he should get on the top bunk, like he usually did when he had nowhere else to sleep, but something kept him standing instead of climbing. He stared down at her, his _best_ friend, his strong companion, and watched her breathe. He thought of Morales and his wife, how they would never breathe again. Did they get to say goodbye to each other? Were they close when they died, or somewhere else, separated and afraid?

Finally he gave up his wondering and woke Carol. She stirred, murmured something about time, and then looked up at him in surprise. Her eyes flickered around. "W-what? W-we're back?"

"Yeah," he glanced at the curtains, as if confirming it for himself, and then his eyes went to hers. He decided to go for it. "Look, somebody jacked my bed, and there ain't no blankets up there."

She stared at him for a moment, too tired to think clearly, and then slid toward the wall, inviting him to lay down beside her. He couldn't think of anything better than shutting his eyes and going to sleep, so he took the invitation. She turned on her side, facing him, so he could lay on his back. His shoulder was throbbing, his head aching to have finally found a pillow. Carol checked which shoulder was hurt – thankfully it was the opposite one – and allowed her arm to fall over his. A bit of warmth passed between them and made the night better.

Though he slept outside of the covers, rejecting her offer to get under them, it felt better to lie beside her than it would've to lie out on that mattress. It was dark and warm; the only sound was her gentle breathing; if he had a nightmare about being overrun, he only had to wake and find her there to calm himself. He suddenly knew why Maggie and Glenn always stayed on the bottom bunk together, why it would be so favorable to sleeping separately. Even if she'd been a normal friend, she was still a human. A living, breathing human sleeping beside him. There was no greater comfort, no greater safety. He slept better than he had in months.


	12. Bug

**Thanks for the reviews again, guys. Imagine me smiling like an idiot every time I read a new one. I'm sorry to say that my insistence on watching Carol in the last chapter will intensify in this one. Take a moment to Google the deadly parasites you can pick up in Georgia.**

XxX

Carol woke up alone, though she was almost positive she would've noticed Daryl leaving. She attributed it to the depth of her sleep, the paralyzing nightmares that found their own way to keep her unconscious. The wall of blankets put up to give her privacy was glowing with mid-afternoon light, and shapes passed back and forth, the friends and family she'd missed so much. She kept hearing whispered words, 'the baby,' over and over again, sometimes sad, sometimes excited, and sometimes worried. She hoped they weren't talking about Judith, but something told her they weren't. Pushing it to the back of her mind she stretched, yanked the covers away, and rolled toward the floor, immediately reaching for a set of clothes someone had been kind enough to wash for her. She didn't even touch them.

Pain, unlike anything she'd ever felt before, seized her stomach and forced her to double over. She let out a sharp yelp, reaching for something that would keep her standing, but her hand fumbled on the smooth table and she fell to her knees. Her forehead touched the cold floor and she vomited, her body convulsing and shivering, the room spinning around her. With one hand clutching her stomach she reached out, unable to scream with her face contorted in pain; she grabbed her knife and banged it against the metal railing of her bed. The motion mad her sick again. It made colors flash before her eyes. It made her innards twist together.

The door opened cautiously at first, and then she felt Tyreese lifting her from the floor. She passed Dave in the doorway, or was it Marcus? Or was it just an empty frame? She heard Tyreese calling for Hershel in a deep, booming voice, carrying her from the cell block to the dining room and clearing out the people who were gathered. Consciousness flooded over her and, with Tyreese supporting her, she was able to sit up on one of Hershel's medical mattresses – the other was occupied by a Hispanic woman, who stared at her with wide eyes.

"What happened?" Hershel asked in a calm, comforting tone. He lifted her shirt and prodded her stomach in several places, asking if it hurt, or was just irritating. She didn't feel anything anymore, so she shook her head. He frowned. "I want to say it was just nerves getting to you, but you were out and about for a week – you said you went into a hospital?"

She nodded, suddenly afraid. "You don't think I caught something, do you?"

"It's possible. It's also possible you ate something, or drunk some bad water. I think it's over with now, though. Your body got out what it wanted to get out." He checked the rest of her vitals, nodding to himself each time he got a favorable result. "Tell me if you experience it again. We might need to put you on something to flush the parasite out."

She recoiled at the word 'parasite,' but accepted his words graciously, thanking him for the check-up and telling him not to worry. As she walked outside, ready to make up for an entire day of sleeping, the memory of the pain faded, as if dissipated by the sun. She wasn't one to complain, so she kept the little flickers of fear to herself. It was nothing. She was fine.

XxX

The day wore on like any other, though it got dark not long after she stepped out. She greeted her friends, happily listening to their stories and telling them about the places she'd gone in the past week. She met the new families, introduced herself to their kids, and went to see Judith, whose father gave her a rundown on the new daycare schedule. He also told her what had happened to Eileen; the news rocked her, but she was immediately concerned for the baby, Alex, who Rick said had been unhealthy and had developed a throat infection. She went from him to the cell where Karen and Tyreese were fawning over their newborn; Karen was weak, pale, and her eyes were hooded, but she managed a smile as Carol approached.

Tyreese stood and presented her with the baby. "She's beautiful, isn't she?"

Carol took the baby carefully in her arms, unable to stop smiling as she looked at its plump, happy face. She didn't have a name yet, but she had already won the hearts of those who held her. It was impossible not to fall in love with those chubby cheeks, those wide, curious gray eyes that shone in the light of the descending day. She spent an hour afterwards sitting with Tyreese in the next cell over, holding the baby and rocking her gently into sleep.

"Hershel doesn't know if she'll make it," he said of the baby's mother, fiddling with a long piece of metal in his lap. The way he said it, so choked and helpless, made Carol set the baby down on the bed and go over to him, crouching in front of him and taking his hands. She smiled as comfortingly as she could, squeezing his palms. A single tear rolled down his face. "It's not that she's sick, but she's weak. He says her body is shutting down. You saw her in there. She can barely stay awake." He pulled his hands away and put them over his face, leaning into his knees. She moved her hand to his shoulder and stared at the ground, just listening. "I don't know what I'm gonna do. I just don't know."

She moved back to the baby, who was beginning to stretch and fuss at the absence of warmth. She held the little girl firmly in her arms, rocking her and shushing her, trying to think of something she could say to Tyreese. Finally, she said, "Come over here." He looked up, but didn't move. "Come on," she patted the bed, "I won't bite, and neither will your daughter."

He moved slowly, unsteadily, to sit with her. She took his hand and laid it on the blankets that covered his daughter, squeezing his fingers, "She's healthy. Look at her. Don't think about anything else. After everything that's happened to you, this is what you get to keep. Karen may survive this, but she may not; this baby, though, is gonna be your responsibility either way. I know it hurts," she murmured, responding to his tears with a crackling voice, "I know, _believe_ me, I know, but this little girl needs you, and you need her. Just remember that, no matter what happens."

They sat together for a few more moments, but soon Hershel called Tyreese into the other cell. He gave her a sorrowful look, glanced at his daughter, asked her to watch the baby, and then left her there alone. Carol went to her own cell and relaxed for a while, visited by Eliza and Louis, who brought tears to her eyes. Eliza had that doll clutched under her arm, the doll that her little Sophia had had with her when she'd died. When they had calmed down, the kids sat with her for a while and took comfort in her desire to mother them; she couldn't imagine how afraid they were, having lost their parents, unsure of the fate of their aunt.

When they left she sat alone, playing with the baby and feeding her when she awakened, and then walking with her between the cell blocks, getting a good look at the progress Glenn had made in just a week. The baby was enthralled by the candles lighting the hallways, but she soon became fussy, and Carol took her back to her cell to wait out her crying spell. At the end she was laughing again, overcome with joy when Daryl came in and gave her a baby toy he'd looted. Tyreese came back at nine to tell her that there had been no change in Karen. He took the baby and left. Carol was alone with her thoughts about this short, busy day. Her daughter was at the very front of her mind – she imagined how she might've grown by now, how strong she would be, how much Carl would've appreciated the company on the road. She touched her stomach, wondering if the thing that had found its way into her body would take her to see her daughter and end this nightmarish journey. That thought, however dreadful it would seem to the others, was comforting. At least in death she would be with her baby again.

She didn't sleep, but drug herself from her cell to entertain the antsy children in C-block. So many new faces crowded her mind, asking for attention. Little hands pushing and shoving, holding dolls, toys, and blankets. Cane was the happiest to see her, and he spent his time in her arms or in her lap, watching the others silently, but refusing to play. She didn't know if Marcus had greeted his kids or not, but, judging by the detached look on Owen's face, he hadn't been monumentally changed by the expedition. If anything, their father was grumpier, locked away in his cell.

Ten rolled around and she gathered the kids for a story, hoping to make up for lost time in some way. Beth didn't join her, having spent the afternoon caring for Judith – she was just now getting to sleep, and it was Rick's turn to watch the baby. Carl sat on the steps, as usual, and alternating between watching the kids and watching the far door, always on guard, always alert. Daryl jumped from the shadows when the most suspenseful part came, sending Hannah, the only girl in the Donovan family, streaking through the hallway. He went after her, leaving the rest of the group to giggle off their fear. When he came back carrying the kid, appearing apologetic, Carol sent them to their parents and stood in the dining room doorway, watching them walk down that long, candlelit hallway; the youngest were holding hands, and the oldest rushed ahead. Cane was still in her arms, refusing to let go, so she carried him over to his brother and crouched at the foot of their mattress. Owen looked up solemnly.

"Cane, get off her," he ordered, moving around her to tuck the blankets into the floor. He gripped the sheets, sighed, and looked up at Daryl – they seemed to have a stronger relationship now that Daryl assigned him regular tasks. One day it was drying out meat, and another it was going out to strengthen the fence. While he regarded most adults with the same look his father had, contemptuous and annoyed, his face was softer when he looked at Daryl. She hoped it was out of respect, not out of fear. "He needs more blankets," the kid murmured.

"Let's get some then." They walked together to the back of the cell block, where a large iron door blocked off the storage room.

Carol sat on the mattress and rubbed Cane's back, wishing he didn't seem so disturbed by the prospect of being put down. "It's okay, sweetheart, you know where I'll be. I'll see you in the morning and you can stay with me all day if you want." He drew his head back, as if checking her honesty. She smiled and kissed his cheek. "I promise. Now listen to your brother and get some sleep. He's going to get you blankets so you don't freeze." She set him down, stroking his face with both hands, and stood to go to her cell.

It must've been the motion. She had forgotten about the pain in her stomach, too occupied with her friends, the babies, and sweet little Cane. She regretted it the moment she rose and the sensation of cold metal twisting in her gut ruled her world. This time it didn't knock her down, allowing her to climb the stairs with a screwed up face; she threw up in the trashcan provided by Hershel, and then collapsed onto her mattress, breathing deeply a few times. Whatever it was, it seemed to be passing through her system, rocking her nerves, but doing little damage. She felt cold and tired all of the sudden, like she couldn't bear to be awake another moment.

Daryl, who'd come in to say goodnight after getting blankets for Cane, found her in the fetal position against the wall. He sat with her for a while, running a wet rag over her sweaty forehead, deliberately disobeying her order to leave Hershel out of it. She was checked over again, watched with worried eyes, and given another clean bill of health. Hershel said it was the damndest thing.

"Get some sleep – I'll try and figure it out in the morning, when you've rested." He handed Daryl a water bottle and looked down at her, pity in his narrowed eyes. "I wish I could do more for you; I feel useless."

She reached out and clasped his hand for a moment, releasing it and letting her arm fall with a heavy thud. She was sitting up, sipping the water that Daryl had been given, staring groggily at the far wall. Hershel came back a few minutes later and found that she had a fever, one that surpassed what he called the 'safety zone.' She laid down for most of his prognosis, but she heard him use the word 'insides' along with 'cooked.' It didn't sound promising. She was falling asleep as he left, and she felt Daryl sit beside her and draw her securely into his side.

"You die on me, I'll kill you," he threatened gently, wiping more sweat from her face. She felt like she was melting into the bed. He kissed her forehead, though it was one of those sweaty, sick kisses that couldn't possibly be romantic. "It wasn't he possum," he defended.

She laughed. "That thing had rabies."

He snorted, but didn't respond. They sat quietly in the half-light, listening to the soft sounds of people preparing for bed. Her body was heated, but she enjoyed being close to him, aware that if her heart suddenly stopped, he could beat the life back into her chest. He told her that at some point, and it stuck. She was aware of a storm going on outside, brought on by the severe cold colliding with the mild warmth of midafternoon. Daryl went out a few times to check on the others, to make sure the prison wasn't leaking, but he always came back.

She fell asleep waiting for him to return once, and didn't stir until noon the next day.


	13. Coward

Six weeks passed in relative peace. Carol took up the responsibility of caring for the children, organizing their activities, teaching them skills they would need to survive, but also providing them with much-needed structure. Louis and Eliza were weaned off of Hershel's special meal plan and quickly joined the other children, seeming to grow happier as the days went on, forgetting the darkness they'd experienced. Their aunt made a full recovery. Karen's illness progressed slowly for the first two weeks and then tapered off; for a while they'd been nursing her back to her full health, bringing joy to everyone in the prison. Daryl and Carl spent more time together as the weeks passed, going out on hunting trips, sitting silently on the roof of the prison, pacing around the fences and keeping an eye on the walkers. Maggie became Alex's primary caregiver and gave up most of her guard duties. Sasha took her place.

Carol divided most of her days in half, using the morning to teach, hone the writing skills of the older kids, and develop reading skills. With Rick's help, she also taught them how to be safe with weaponry, and how to react if a walker came after them. The second half of the day she turned them loose to do what they wanted. Sometimes she would sit out with them, listening to their stories, watching them race, snuggling Cane, who had been glued to her chest since her return. Other times she went to Tyreese's cell and relieved him of baby-duty, taking little Maddie out for a walk. She got Judith for at least an hour a day, giving Rick a break so he could help Glenn organize the training sessions. Saturdays she had Judith all day. Beth had begun shooting lessons, learning to protect herself for fear of being incapable of defending her loved ones. When she was good enough, she would take night shifts, and care for Judith during the day. Carol rarely got to see Alex, who was being fostered by Maggie; the former tomboy had gotten in touch with her motherly side and she spent all day fawning over the little boy. Though she seemed frustrated to be inside all the time, she was so protective of Alex that she wouldn't give him up to many people. Dave and Carol were the only ones on the safe-list.

When she wasn't teaching, or changing diapers, Carol spent her time in the front guard toward with Daryl, listening to him talk about the animals he'd been trapping, and the trees he and Glenn were planning on taking down to get a better view of the road. Sometimes they got physical, when Carol wasn't too exhausted and Daryl wasn't acting like an ass. Those times were rare and special to her, because she saw a side of him that she knew he didn't show to anyone else. When he was out with Carl, or just generally aloof, she helped Sasha scrub down the rest of D-block, planning ahead in case any more people showed up before the world froze over.

There was never a dull moment in the prison, never a time when they could sit and think about how lucky they were to be alive, or how sad they were for the ones who hadn't made it to this wonderful place. Carol liked it that way. She also liked that her stomach bug had passed, though it seemed to have struck Carl with just as much ferocity – Hershel was sure of his prognosis now, sure that they'd drunk from the same canister and ended up with the same virus. That was comforting, and it let her sleep easily.

Life seemed to be going well for them, so well that Daryl was already organizing another outing, and Marcus and his brother (all had become clear when Dave revealed they had the same mother) had already signed up to go. Carol hadn't decided whether or not she would go, but she was leaning toward staying to continue her schedule with the kids. Leaving Cane again might traumatize him. She was glad that Marcus would go, though, because he'd begun to change since their return. He volunteered to help paint the walls, to go with everyone who made trips to the stream for water. Once Carol passed by his cell and found him sitting on his bed holding Cane tightly to his chest. His eyes were shut. She didn't linger and spoil it, but it made her warm inside.

The morning of Daryl's next outing came on the six-week anniversary of their return, and this time he planned to shorten the distance traveled and scavenge a few things from a list provided by Glenn. He was taking the horse trailer. It seemed that they needed furniture, more mattresses (without bloodstains), and some more chains to fortify the fences. He used this as a pretense to ask Carol to come, promising that they wouldn't be gone for more than two days.

He stood in her doorway, waiting stubbornly for her answer. She was holding Maddie in both arms, giving her butterfly kisses on the cheeks and provoking sweet giggles that filled the air. She spoke between kisses. "The kids need a schedule; I can't just leave them. Besides, I promised Owen I'd show him how to tie his shoes tomorrow."

"He's eleven, he can figure it out himself," Daryl objected. He came over and sat beside her, smiling at the baby. His smile faded after a moment and he sat back, groaning. "Carl's not coming. He caught a stomach bug or somethin,' same as you."

"Poor thing."

"I told Marcus he could come, but he h'ain't said anything. Aiden _wants_ to come – I told him hell no. I ain't goin' out to babysit that kid." He pulled out his knife, twirling it in both hands. "Sasha's comin,' and John and Diane, whoever the hell they are. And Dave."

"You need to socialize more. They're the couple in D-block, with Richard. They're good people, good parents." She shifted, handing him the baby so she could get her bottle ready. "I'll come if I can get Maggie to take over with the kids. I don't want them to revert. It's like Lord of the Flies if you don't watch them."

"Don't you mean 'rings'?"

"No."

She took the baby back and fed her on the way to her father's cell, aware that Daryl was following her. She found a sad scene – Hershel was bent over Karen, trying to soothe her coughing, and Tyreese stood in the corner, watching them with a dark expression. He stirred when Carol appeared with the baby, taking Maddie gently in his arms and thanking Carol for watching her. Next she went to Maggie's cell and asked about taking over the kids for two days; she agreed, saying she would give Alex to Glenn. Her mood improved at the prospect of getting a new mattress, which Daryl waved her over head like bait.

They were scheduled to leave that afternoon around three, so Carol took her time getting ready. She packed her usual things, along with some medicine in case her stomach acted up, and a few extra batteries for her flashlight. She was stuffing everything inside when Hershel appeared in her doorway, watching her with an uncharacteristically sad expression.

She looked up, her skin prickling. "What? What's is it? What's wrong?"

He walked over and sat beside her, shaking his head. "Nothing's wrong, don't get yourself worked up. I just thought I'd bring this by… just for clarity." He held out a small box, pressing it into her hand. "I'm not asking you to tell me anything, but… if it comes out positive, we've got to get you on some vitamins to make sure it's healthy."

She stared at him, numb to what he was saying. "I'm not p-p-pregnant, I can't be."

"Have you had sex recently?"

She swallowed and nodded, wide-eyed.

"Have you gone through menopause?"

"No, but-"

"Then it's possible." He put his hand on her shoulder, smiling grimly. "Listen to me. I want you to know that there's a good chance you're not even pregnant. It might've just been a virus." He paused, as if thinking something over, and then murmured, "Have you miscarried before?"

She nodded blankly, recalling a time before Sophia's birth that she'd experienced the pain of losing an unborn child who she'd been so excited to meet. When she thought of having a baby in this place, her hand drifted to her stomach, and she felt nothing but coldness toward whatever was growing there. It was startling.

"Use it. I need to know so we can deal with this."

She nodded again, doing what he said once he had left the cell. She sat on the bunk and stared at the test, waiting for the results to show. Hershel came back to sit with her, one arm around her shoulders, his hand wrapped around hers. Tears rolled slowly down her face, provoked not by the thought of already having lost it, but by the idea of a baby in general. There wasn't enough room, not enough formula, nowhere near enough diapers. She wasn't strong enough to give birth – Sophia had almost killed her – and nowhere near strong enough to deal with holding a dead baby in her arms, one that had barely begun to live. And then there was that old familiar pain, sneaking up on her. She could imagine raising it, loving it, giving it all of the affection left in her heart, and then watching it die, watching it suffer, watching it wobble toward her with cold, dead eyes. This was her mindset, the grim, the hopeless, and it was all amplified when a little blue cross appeared on the test. She turned into Hershel's shoulder and cried for a while, not understanding her tears, her life, her cruel fate.

He stayed with her to talk about her options, but she rarely listened, and when she did she responded in a way that made him frown. He kept repeating what he'd said earlier, how it was very possible that she'd never see it, that she wouldn't even show before she lost it, as if those words would comfort her. He obviously didn't understand her pain. She didn't even understand it. She didn't know if it would be better to lose it, or to keep it. She didn't know if she should mourn it now, or try to work up some sort of excitement at its life. She couldn't. She couldn't bear it.

"Just…" she wiped tears away, sniffling, dabbing her face with the tissue he'd given her, "Just don't tell him. Don't tell Daryl until I figure out what to do. He doesn't need to know if it never shows." Responding to the critical look in his eyes, she snapped, "Don't you tell him, Hershel. I'm asking you as a friend."

He nodded reluctantly. "We just have to let things play out; don't do anything rash."

She curled her legs up to her chest, resting her forehead there. He must've thought her suicidal, or worse, because he remained in her cell until dark, refusing anyone who came by. He told Daryl to go on without her because the virus had returned. He wouldn't let him in. For the first time in her life Carol didn't want to see anyone. She didn't want to be around them. She felt like she was going to curse them one way or another. She would bring another defenseless baby into this world and drain the supplies, or she would die and bring them sorrow. She was the worst type of person for doing this, so irresponsible, so stupid to have let herself have sex with Daryl. This is what it got her: a little blue cross and grim prospects.

"Here, these ought to calm your nerves, and this is for the baby." Hershel brought her little red pills and vitamins, with juice to wash them down. She took them gratefully and sat back, sniffling again, having regained some of her sanity. As soon as he received her apologetic look, he sat down and leaned back with her, laying his crutches across the floor. "Don't be sorry. I can't imagine what you're going through. Tell me, though, do you want this baby?"

She shrugged. She wasn't heartless enough to say 'no,' but she was thinking it. "We'd all be better off if this never happened." She sighed. "I never told you this, but I almost died when I had Sophia, and I was twelve years younger then."

"But if you could go back, would you choose differently? Would you decide you didn't want her?"

"No." Tears sprung again at the topic and she turned away. Thoughts of her daughter warmed her heart, but they also made her feel so broken. "I thought she was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. She was mine, all mine, and Ed couldn't take her from me." She looked back at Hershel and smiled, taking his hand. Her voice broke and tears slid down that smile. "I don't know if I can ever love anyone like that again. I just don't know."

He nodded understandingly. "When I lost Josephine, I thought I was done loving people forever, but then I found Annette and we had a beautiful daughter together. The love I felt for them was different than the love I feel for the people in this prison." He squeezed her hand. "I don't know what I'd do without you all. What I'm trying to say is this: you don't have to love this baby any more or any less than you loved your little girl, because it's a different kind of love."

After he left she spent the night crying over one thing or another, bringing herself back from the edge of sorrow and then falling back in. She didn't know how to feel, how to react, how to think about what was happening. She just knew that she was too old to be pregnant, and not strong enough to handle another death. She knew that she felt cold inside where she should've felt warmth, that she couldn't help but regret everything she'd felt for Daryl because it had led to this. And then she thought of how he'd react to the news, how pissed he'd be that his workload would be doubled, that his simple life would be shattered. She could've ended it right there. She stared at the knife on the table and tried to work herself up enough to put it through her stomach, right where the baby would be growing. Hershel could sew her up and she could tell everyone she had an accident. Nobody would know what almost happened, the tragedy that could've unfolded.

But she was a coward. She could only despair as she thought of what would happen to her, to the child in her stomach. She could only feel darkness emanating from it, not joy, or expectation; just sadness, tainted by the memory of the daughter she'd lost, but she couldn't kill it. She couldn't do anything for or against it.

She would let things play out, like Hershel had said. That was all she could do. That, and hope she could stand the sight of the child she may bring into this world.


	14. Hope

**I'd like to thank you guys for your awesome reviews – my family seriously thinks I'm crazy because I was reading them and grinning the whole time. They made my day. Anyway, I read this article that said Norman Reedus, the guy who plays Daryl on the show, wanted Daryl to get a dog, but they got him a new crossbow instead. I think we should fulfill his wish, because, after all, a country boy ain't nothin' without his dog.**

XxX

Carol dreamt of babies every night for the next few days, unable to escape them in the real world, and unable to save their lives in her dreams. She was depressed and conflicted, too good of a listener to think of telling someone else about her problems; she didn't feel that they were important enough, or that anyone should care. Hershel became increasingly concerned for her mental state, and he blabbed the news to Karen, hoping the recovering new mother would give her some life-altering advice that would, in some way, drag her out of her sadness, but lack of sleep and isolation had made Carol's mood plummet, and she said something unforgiveable to the other woman. Something about her baby, who'd caught a cough just as her mother was getting better.

Her mind was in a state of doom. She spent the day following her diagnosis locked in her cell, imagining everything that could go wrong in the near future. She could lose the baby and lose herself, too tired to come back from such devastation. She could die in childbirth and inflict the defenseless infant on everyone in the prison, so that someone else would have to give up their duties, their happiness, and their life. She could lose the baby after it was born and feel the guilt wash over her like waves of corrosive acid, eating away at what remained after losing Sophia. She knew that she would die. She didn't even consider delivering a healthy baby. Her mind was too muddled for that, too sensitive to the blackness from her previous life.

Thankfully the others respected her wishes to be alone, and, aside from her long talks with Hershel, who she couldn't even be mad at, she only saw one other person that day. Daryl came back in the dead of night, his skin covered in dirt, as usual, and his eyes bright with the excitement of battle. He sat with her, told her Carl was feeling better, invited to come when they left again the following morning, and asked her if she was feeling alright. She responded in a generic way, 'I'm fine,' 'just a little woozy,' 'Hershel's taking care of me,' 'no, you shouldn't worry.' He took it at face value, not bothered to look deeper, to see the exhaustion in her face, the strain of her thoughts. Once he was gone she cried for a while, whether it was overactive hormones or just self-pity.

Her dreams that night changed a little, incorporating some of the things she'd seen that day; a little girl with Daryl's eyes crawled around the courtyard, smiling like he smiled, pulling herself up into an unsteady wobble, and then a sprint. Storm clouds formed in the distance and she could hear Daryl's panicked voice calling out for her, his devastation at losing his own flesh and blood, so much worse because this was _his_ baby, _his_ little princess. And then, as always, the face of her child shifted into one of those undead things, and a gunshot went off. It repeated several times, bringing fresh tears to her tender face each time she awakened.

In the middle of the night she woke to something other than the gunshot. She sat up in bed, alert, and heard her door rattling. She'd unlocked it before she'd gone to bed, fearing a nighttime catastrophe. It swung open gently and three-year-old Cane stood there, his favorite blanket tucked under his arms, shivering with bare feet on the concrete, his little face glistening with tears.

It didn't matter what mood she was in, how sad she felt, how horrible this night and the last two days had been for her; she held her arms out and embraced him when he came to her, pulling him onto the bed and wrapping him up in the covers to force the cold away. She hated that he was afraid, that he'd had another nightmare about his mother or his journey to the prison, but she couldn't help but be thankful for his presence. New thoughts, less cynical, less pessimistic, sprung up in her mind. She could imagine holding her own child this way, rocking away their nightmares, looking over to see Daryl lying beside her, his eyes shining in the low light. She could imagine letting them sleep with her, always tucked into her side, always happy, and well-fed, and safe from harm. Cane was like her dearest nephew by now, and she loved him radiantly; for the time she'd known him, he was filling in the gaps, allowing her heart to learn to love a child again – what if it was like that with her own? What if it reawakened that joy, that tender, precious love? What if their every moment made her happy? What if she felt it every time they fell, and laughed whenever they laughed? What if Daryl was there for her like Tyreese was there for Karen? What if he watched their child like Tyreese watched his little girl, or like Rick watched Judith? That didn't seem like such a bad life. It didn't seem like such a curse.

Before he fell asleep they laid down, Cane closest to the wall because he was afraid there were monsters under her bunk. He played with her hair and her sleeve, his little eyes drifting away, and wiggled his toes against her side, giggling when she flexed toward him. She loved that laugh.

He asked her why she was crying, and, until that moment, she hadn't realized tears were sliding down her cheeks. She wiped them away and sniffled, shaking her head. "I'm just happy. I found out I'm gonna have a baby." She didn't know why she would tell a three-year-old and not the baby's father, but it just slipped out. Cane's question was so innocent and sweet that it deserved an honest answer.

He thought a moment, and then he asked, "What its name?"

"I don't know yet. I'll find out when it gets here." She kissed his forehead and began to hum, lulling him into sleep. He wasn't hard to put down if you had the right tools. With Sophia it had been singing, but with Cane it was humming, and rocking, and pats on the back. Soon his breathing evened out and his little hand unfolded on her chest.

She smiled down at him, hopeful for the first time that her child would survive and thrive in this place, just like Cane had, just like all of the people here. The doubts lingered, the prospect of death always hanging over her, the idea of telling Daryl and getting rejected bringing trouble to paradise, but she still had this hope, like a short, dim candle lighting a long, dark tunnel.

XxX

Daryl turned right on the highway that ran in front of the prison, and then right again to pass by its side; he took the path the group would've taken had they not spotted the prison through the trees. This direction was mostly farmland dotted with houses and run-down businesses; the road wove in and out of the forest, sometimes taking them miles and miles into the hills and then dragging them back into the open. Now that there were only three of them in the group – Dave, John, and Diane had stayed at the prison, and Carl had joined them – looting became quick and efficient, never lasting more than an hour. Though he regretted losing three members and getting stuck with Marcus, Daryl's mind was at peace; he was satisfied that Carol was fine, that the prison wasn't burning to the ground just because he'd been gone for two days, that everyone was well-fed and happy, warm, tucked away in their beds.

As the weeks passed the three of them formed a coherent team, extending their trip each time they met the end and working together to brave the vicious dawn of winter. Marcus became an integral part of the group. His voice was less of an irritation, and his every action didn't provoke suspicion. He always carried a gun and a machete, and he usually volunteered for the first night shift, which stopped making Daryl nervous on the fifth night. For a while Marcus had been his hunting partner, and with two sets of keen eyes and ears, they were able to bring down a buck in the fourth week, which gave them all a morale boost. That night they sat around the fire laughing and swapping stories; Carl made Daryl and Marcus spit out their drinks when he told them a very private story about his father. Life went on into the fifth and sixth weeks, until they were living wholly off of the land and the houses they passed, siphoning gas from every source, pushing the SUV when they couldn't find enough to keep going. Carl was getting stronger by the day, sprouting muscles on his stick-thin arms, building up endurance that kept him moving. His parents would've disagreed, but Daryl thought it was good for him. Ever since he'd started doing things on his own as a kid, he'd felt better about himself, and life had been simpler.

It was on the seventh week, give or take a few days, when they sat around their usual fire and talked about the places they'd been, and where they planned on going. They were seventy miles from the border of Alabama, and a hundred miles from crossing into Tennessee, lodging themselves in the upper corner of Georgia. There were plenty of places they had skipped over in favor of progress, which now sat as green circles on Daryl's map, but, for the most part, they'd picked the houses along the highway clean, preferring those without massive mobs of walkers wobbling along. The closer they got to the mountains, the less walkers they saw, and that was inspiring for them. Now they were considering crossing the border into Tennessee, perhaps even shooting for Nashville to see if it looked the same as Atlanta.

But they were all tired, and the idea of going all that way made them feel like they'd just signed their own death certificates. Though Daryl had told Glenn he'd be out for a while, he had the desire to go back to the prison and relax, to know where his meals came from, to be shut in from the cold, the rain, and the flurries of snow. He could see the same desire in the faces of his companions. Marcus even expressed the desire to see his kids again, and Carl to see his father. Daryl knew that once they were home, things would return to normal – normal being Marcus ignoring Cane and Owen, and Carl avoiding his father – but he let them have their fantasies. He never voiced his main desire, which was to see Carol again, for fear of being ridiculed. He would just hit whoever dared say anything, but being made fun of had bothered him since he was a little kid at the mercy of his brother. He didn't want anyone to think he was soft, that he couldn't brave a little wilderness and leave his domestics where they belonged.

"We'll round about here," he said, pulling out his map and making a large circle with his finger from their location to the highway they'd left days ago. The circle took them into a red zone, but whoever created the Woodbury maps had written that the road was clear – or, at the very least, passible. If it wasn't they'd have to circle back at the risk of getting mobbed.

Carl scooted over and stared at the map, yawning. "What about that way," he motioned to a neighborhood just south of them, which could also give them a route home.

Daryl shook his head. "No, we ain't got room in the trailer. Might as well just circle back the way we came and save the miles." He sat back, touching his stomach when it growled. "Let's get on the highway now... I smell a hot meal waitin' back at the prison."

All three of them hummed in desire at that, having gone a few day now without anything substantial. The work they'd been doing drained the deer quickly, and the food they'd looted was secured in the trailer, not to be touched until they got back. That was a resolution they all stuck to. After all, they were hunters, and relatively good men; they would feed their loved ones, their families, and go hungry until everyone was full. Not even Marcus broke that rule. Daryl respected him for that, and for how well he'd protected their backs all this time. He didn't want to show off when there were no women around, and he'd given up on taunting Daryl about Carol. Though his stomach was empty, he didn't complain, and that did everyone a favor. They all knew they were hungry, that they were cold, that they had injuries on their bodies and sore muscles, that their heads ached from lack of sleep, that they rarely dreamt, but sunk into blackness when they laid their heads down. It was a given out here.

An hour passed before they packed it up for the night. Daryl followed through on his plans to hit the road, taking them at least a quarter of the way back to the prison before dawn came. He gave the maps to Marcus at seven in the morning and took his turn in the passenger's seat, sleeping uneasily for a few hours. He was too tired to take over when evening came, having been unable to get the rest he really needed, so he tossed the keys to Carl and told him to have at it. He woke up several times from being slammed into the dashboard, and he heard a sheepish 'sorry' beside him.

He got his best sleep when they left the high altitudes of the mountains, but he awakened sometimes slumped against the window or nearly on the floorboards because of Carl's erratic driving. The kid was having the time of his life, though, and he didn't bother to stop him.

He should have.

One hundred miles from the prison, deep in the second night of their drive home, Carl was on the driving shift. Daryl was sitting up in the passenger's seat, examining the maps for no particular reason, and Marcus was asleep in the back, having just come off of nine hours of driving. The headlights passed over something in the road, something that wasn't a walker or a person. Carl hit the brakes, ignoring Daryl's order to keep going.

"No, look, it's a dog," he objected, throwing the car in park and getting out. He vanished into the night. Daryl rolled his eyes, cursed, punched Marcus in the shoulder to wake him up, and then ran after the idiot who thought it was a good idea to go jogging in a red zone.

For several minutes he heard nothing, saw nothing, and wished for a flashlight. He crept along the road, his eyes wide open, and hissed Carl's name, wishing he'd brought a shovel to knock the kid out when he found him. He passed corpses that had been completely devoured, unable to reincarnate because they're brains were missing. He crashed into a walker about thirty yards from the SUV, almost throwing his wrist right into its jaw, but he stumbled backwards just in time. He fell over one of the corpses and scrambled for his knife, cursing his own name when he remember that he'd take it off to keep it from jabbing him in his side while he slept. He felt the ground around him, aware of that raspy breathing getting closer to him, aware that he could easily be bitten if he didn't know where the walker's head was.

Finally Marcus showed up with the flashlights and Daryl's crossbow, downing the walker with an arrow to the temple. He helped Daryl up and handed him his weapon and a torch, shining his on the walk that had almost made a meal out of Daryl. "Where the hell's the kid?"

Daryl shrugged. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, shining the flashlights in every direction, trying to catch the nooks and crannies of the highway without signaling every nearby walker. As the sound of the undead got louder, Daryl grew uneasy. He shot his flashlight to the forest and caught the tail-end of Carl's shirt as the kid chased after whatever he'd stopped for.

"Carl! Get your ass back here! _Carl_!"

"We gotta go, man, you hearin' that?"

He could hear it. The opposite side of the road was becoming populated with dragging feet. He looked anxiously in that direction, cursed, and then ran after Carl, Marcus hard on his heels. They jumped the barbed wire that separated the flat grass of the roadside from the thick underbrush of the forest, and then raced toward the sound of Carl's footsteps, which weren't exactly sneaky. He was being careless, being stupid, being too much like a kid – Daryl didn't understand it at all. This wasn't the Carl he knew. What had made him fall apart so easily?

They hit a clearing, where Carl had stopped and was reaching out to the forest, whispering and making kissing noises. Daryl stopped Marcus from approaching, enthralled by whatever this kid was going after. He wanted to tell him to move, to get up and get back to the SUV before it was overrun, but he couldn't.

From the woods came a white ball of fluff, one that Daryl recognized immediately. His entire life had been spent around dogs like this, his mother's favorite breed, his brother's first companion, the bane of his father's existence. But what the hell was a pup this young doing out here? How could it have avoided those walkers? _Dogs are fast_, he reasoned. _Too fast for walkers to catch, too smart to get caught. I always told Rick we ought to get a dog._

It walked into Carl's arms and whimpered pitifully, employing cute puppy mode to save its own life. Daryl walked over, stood the kid and the dog up, and motioned toward the road. "Let's go. Bring it."

Carl's eyes lit up like stars. "Really?"

"We'll tell your dad I picked it up. Let's go."

"Thanks Daryl!" He started back toward the car immediately, telling the dog everything he would teach it, how he would make it its own home, how he would bathe it and let it sleep in his bed. Marcus and Daryl followed, giving each other 'kids and their freaking dogs' looks as they walked. They made it to the car without being eaten, perhaps because the walkers couldn't figure out how to get over the divide, and left that place with Daryl at the wheel and Carl in the passenger's seat, stroking the little white dog that was almost walker-bait.

"I'm gonna call her Hope, you know, 'cause she probably didn't think she was gonna live that long, but then I found her."

Daryl looked at him and smiled a little. "That's a good name. Hope. Look, I hate to burst your bubble, kid, but I don't think you know what you're gettin' in to."

Carl frowned and tilted his head. "What?"

"That's a _Pyrenees_. In other words, it's gonna need its own bed."


	15. Return

Since arriving at the prison over four months ago, Cane hadn't spoken a word. He didn't talk to his brother, to his father, to the other survivors, or even to Carol, who treated him like her own son, but after their short conversation that night in her bunk, when she felt like her world was imploding, he unbuttoned his lips and let out his thoughts whenever he was with her. She may have let herself get sad a few times in those next weeks, but whenever he came around she brightened, listening to him talk about her baby; he was sure that they would be best friends, that he'd share his toys with it, tell it the stories that Carol had told him, fight monsters with it, and go exploring to find treasure. She'd never imagined him to be so creative just looking at that solemn face. It was like he'd been looking for something worth talking about all this time, and now that he'd found it, he couldn't stop. Granted, in crowds or when Carol wasn't around he said nothing, looked no one in the eye, and kept to himself. She still considered it an improvement for both of them, something that made the doom lessen.

Seven weeks after the group of three had left the prison, Glenn made sure to tell everyone, as he had every week since their departure, that they must've decided to stay out longer. He also made it a point to tell them how much he trusted Daryl, and that they shouldn't worry. He was the most worried, but no one pointed it out to let him keep his dignity. Carol had a tinge of fear in the back of her mind, but she knew that Daryl could handle himself, and that Carl and Marcus were capable people with plenty of hands-on experience. Daryl didn't like lying around the prison all day, preferring the freedom outside the walls, but she knew he'd come back. He always did.

It was almost three months now that Carol had been pregnant, and it was showing as a distinct bump under every shirt she donned. She'd taken to wearing loose, oversized hoodies to hide it from the others, though she'd begun to care little about what they thought. Cane was overjoyed to see the baby's progress, as was Hershel, and that seemed to be all she needed to feel confident in herself.

"Alright, that should do it," Hershel began packing up his supplies, having done another exam to make sure she and the baby were healthy. He smiled at her, always glad nowadays. "Look at you. You're glowing."

She smiled. "I'm happy."

"That's good to hear." He zipped up his bag and looked at Cane, who'd taken a liking to him now that he visited Carol so much. He made a mischievous face and the little boy, who'd been crawling around the bed during the whole visit, stopped and stared at him, his eyes wide with expectation. Hershel pulled a piece of chocolate out of his bag's side pocket and gave it to Cane, smiling as it was scarfed down. "Now listen, you, that's just between us."

Cane nodded obediently and smiled, leaning against Carol's back and wrapping his arms around her neck. He stared at Hershel from behind her ear, still shy despite his fondness for the man. She waited until Hershel was gone to pulled him around and throw him onto the mattress, tickling him and provoking a long stream of snorts and giggles. She would stop, look around like she was bored, and then start tickling him again; he laughed harder every time until he was out of breath, and he would just lie there, gasping and grinning at her.

It was rumored to be a windless day, so she took Cane to the courtyard and sat near the basketball court, letting him watch the game with excitement and caution while she looked across the yard to the distant fences. Glenn was in the guard tower, talking to Diane, and the gate was being monitored by Owen, who sometimes looked across at them, always keeping an eye on his brother. He came to them after a while and sat at Carol's feet, squinting at the basketball players but seeming less excited than Cane. He didn't speak. On the opposite side of the yard, Michonne was instructing a group of adults in the fine art of knives, snapping at them when they did something stupid and offering them the shiniest part of her blade. Carol smiled, aware that Michonne was a compassionate person on the inside, despite her rough behavior. Just like Daryl. The doors opened and Maggie appeared holding Alex, heading across the yard to bring Glenn something for lunch. Rick paced near Michonne's lessons with Judith sleeping on his shoulder, not anxiously, like he'd done in the past, but expectantly. He was full of energy these days. Kylie and Aiden, who'd come with their mother three months before, were just joining the other children in a race across the grass, finally reaching out after their mother's wounds had taken her life. Carol smiled at this, too, and it gave her more hope. It made her a bit happier to see their resilience.

After a while Carol walked hand-in-hand with Cane to the gardens, where Hershel was hobbling around, muttering to himself about poor craftsmanship. Cane went to search through the clovers just past the rows of potatoes, and Owen followed him silently. Hershel watched them go and then looked at Carol, smiling.

"Nice day today, glad that damned wind stopped," he said, pulling his rag from his belt loop and wiping his face with it. It was freezing out, but using those crutches made him sweat. "I wish Dave was here more when these were planted – most of them are too shallow, the rest are too deep."

She folded her arms, feeling the bump in her stomach resting just under her forearm. "Can't anybody fix them?" She crouched, patting the earth. "It's still fresh enough, right?"

With those words she seemed to have volunteered to do just that, and she got to work for an hour or two digging pieces of potato out of the ground. Hershel instructed her on exactly how they should be placed, hobbling from one side of the garden to the next, regretting that he couldn't get down on his only knee and help her. She enjoyed the work – it brought her out of her sedentary shell, which had formed the moment she found out she was pregnant. She could do more than watch kids and mope; she was always an active person.

Cane came back with a few large clovers and some wildflowers, which had braved early winter and sprung to life in that field. She accepted them and pulled him into a kiss, provoking giggles again. Owen smiled behind him. Hershel announced that they were done and they should pack it up; apparently he read storms in the soft white clouds rolling in, and he didn't want anyone to be out when the hail started. As they walked toward the door, they told everyone to go inside, including the guards, who would be sitting ducks if lightning struck that tower.

Darkness fell. The prison was warm and dark. Carol sat on Cane's mattress with her back to the wall, listening to a story being told by Beth, who was going into mothering withdraw since allowing Rick to take Judith full time. Owen sat uncharacteristically close to her side, his head touching her shoulder. Eventually it fell and he drew in a deep, easy breath. She smiled to herself. The stories ended at eleven and everyone got ready for bed. Carol went into her cell alone, glancing longingly at the bunk above hers, and changed into her night clothes. She brushed her teeth with a bottle of water, hit her knees beside her bible and said a prayer for Daryl and the others, and then laid down in cold sheets, shivering as thunder rumbled through the prison. She heard the kids outside gasp and giggle, counting the seconds; she knew they'd be staring at the window waiting for lightning, trying to measure how far off the storm was. Their game kept them from being afraid.

She tried to sleep, but the storm hit minutes later. It was like the world was falling apart out there. She got up several times to check on the kids, finding them huddled up in little masses, chattering excitedly about floods and lightning. She lay alone in her bed when the news came.

They were back.

She ran outside with Dave and Glenn, numb to the rain that soaked her instantly, her smile lighting up as they made it to the gate. The walkers were gathering by the time they got the SUV and the trailer through; Carol had to close the gate on the head of one, cringing when it tried to bite her. Glenn killed it with a knife to the head. Once both gates were secured, the three of them ran back down the path and banged on the sides of the SUV, excitement uncontained in this stormy air. Marcus slipped out of the back first, instantly embraced by Dave, and then Carl fell into Carol's arms, his hold a lot tighter than she remember. She kissed his head and pushed his hair out of his face, smiling down at him and telling how glad she was that he was okay. When he pulled a little white bundle out, grinning at her, she couldn't help but smile at him and the dog. Her cheeks hurt she was smiling so much.

Daryl circled the car and warned them to get inside, lest they all freeze to death. Their eyes met momentarily, a brief bout of emotion passing from each, and then they both headed for the door, Carol still holding Carl protectively by the shoulders. Rick was at the door to let them in, and he hit his knees to hold his son, getting a strong hug in response.

"Look at you," Rick said, holding his son's face in his hands, beaming and seeming like he wanted to cry at the same time. He stroked Carl's cheeks. "Look at you, my boy, you're so strong. You're so brave." He stared at the dog momentarily, and then nodded at Carl. He pulled him back into his arms, standing and holding onto him. Though Carl was growing up, he seemed to revel being in his father's hold once more, and that hardened look fell from his face, replaced by tenderness.

Carol was beginning to shiver. Noticing, Daryl pulled her by her arm toward her cell, grabbing some more clothes from the pile she'd organized the day before. The tower of shirts fell and he cringed, "Shit. I got it."

She shut her door, changing into a tank-top while he reordered her clothes. As she was smoothing it self-consciously over the bump in her stomach, he wrapped both arms around her in that protective, possessive way he had and kissed her gently on the cheek, whispering, "You have no idea how much I missed you. There ain't _words_." She leaned into him, unable to resist the defenseless way he spoke, the way he dropped the walls he put up between himself and everybody else in the prison. To them he was just a tough guy, just a standoffish defender, just a man who threw out as many insults as he did kind words, but to her he was this man who had so much to say through actions alone; his words were a surprise, such a welcome one that her heart soared.

She turned toward him, meeting his hug with one of her own. They stood together for a while, just breathing, before they laid down on her bunk. He folded his arms over her chest again, his favorite position in which to hold her, and nuzzled the back of her neck, provoking a giggle.

For a while there was silence, and she thought he might've fallen asleep, but he was awake the entire time. He ran his hand down her shoulder, across her midsection, and let it rest on her hip, kissing her shoulder without thinking about it. His mind was elsewhere. "You're freezing," he murmured, running his hand back up and grasping her upper arm.

She shrugged, pressing her face into the arm beneath her head. She was warm enough. He got up anyway, returning a moment later with a thick blanket, which he laid over her. She turned toward him and, as the candle burned behind her head, she was able to stare at him without him seeing the look on her face. His eyebrows drew down, as if he sensed something was wrong, and he ran his index finger down her jawline. "What?"

"Nothing." She whispered her response, feeling that this moment was too precious to shatter. Without allowing him to say anything else, she leaned over and kissed him. He responded sweetly, pulling her closer, saying something that she didn't understand. The storm went on outside and they made love, ending up tangled together with nothing but time ahead. Still, what she would have to tell him lingered above her and tainted the moment. It tainted the way he gazed at her, the way he stared, like she was some magical thing he couldn't get his head around. She wished he didn't do that. It only made her feel guilty.


	16. Gone

Carol sat with Hershel in her cell, her shirt peeled up so he could examine the ever-growing bump usually hidden by winter coats, robes, and clever positioning. Last week they'd been able to hear its heartbeat through his stethoscope, and, for days now, she'd been feeling it move about inside, sometimes making her nauseas in the middle of the night. If it had been any other season, she wouldn't have been able to justify carrying blankets and wearing ridiculously big winter coats; she was thankful for that, and thankful that Daryl had too much on his mind to question why she'd kicked him out of the cell. Fourteen days had passed since he brought the others back in the midst of a storm, and she still hadn't told him.

"Fourteen weeks," Hershel announced, smiling at her. He passed her some more vitamins, these much larger than the last, and watched while she took them. "Listen, I can't imagine what's going on in your head, but I still think you should tell him. This baby's growing fast, and it's only a matter of time before somebody notices and it gets around to Daryl. He shouldn't find out like that – besides feeling like a fool, he may think you have another reason to hide it."

She snorted, pulling her shirt down and shrugging on a thick wool coat, one that was so baggy and fluffy it made her entire body look like a plaid marshmallow. The idea of cheating never crossed her mind, particularly because she didn't consider herself very attractive, and she found it amusing that anyone would think she got a little action on the side. From who? Dave? She snorted again, drawing Hershel's smiling eyes to her face. "Sorry," she said, turning toward him. "I'll tell him. I just… I can't find the right words. And he's so sweet, he really is, but sometimes he gets…"

He nodded solemnly, holding onto her hands. "Tell him. Whatever happens, I'll be here for you."

"You've done so much for me," she responded, holding back the tears that she was sure the kid in her stomach was producing. "You're a good man, Hershel."

"I know it." They both laughed. He pressed the bottle of vitamins into her hand and hugged her, giving her the impression that he was going to leave her, and probably send Daryl in. The thought alone forced a solitary tear down her cheek. When he withdrew, he wiped it away. "He deserves the truth, and so do you. You're driving yourself crazy, keeping this from everybody."

She agreed, and once he was gone, she thought of a hundred way to bring it up in a conversation with Daryl. The worst parts of their relationship came flooding back the moment she considered how he would react – _You're afraid. You're afraid 'cause you're all alone. Got no husband, no daughter_. Y_ou don't know what to do with yourself. And you ain't my problem. Sophia wasn't mine_. He apologized for that rant a long, long time ago, but it came back to the front of her mind, sticking there as a definition of how he acted when he was pissed off. He could be so hurtful when he wanted to be, lashing out. She didn't know if she could handle that.

Pushing her thoughts to the back of her mind, convinced that, when he came, she would casually share the news and hope for the best, she curled up against the wall, blankets piled around her, the door open invitingly, and cracked open a book that was, ironically, about the end of the world. She hadn't been reading for more than half an hour when Daryl paused in her doorway, putting away the knife he'd been holding. He stepped inside, sat at the end of her bunk, kicked off his shoes, and rested his feet across her legs, groaning as if he'd been standing all day.

"Long day?"

He nodded, stretching his arms one at a time. "Been trainin' with that Diane chick. She kicked my _ass_." He looked up when she laughed, cocking an eyebrow. "Think that's funny? You go two rounds with her and see how you're feelin'." He glanced back, tipped the door closed, and shrugged off his jacket, checking a few wounds he'd accumulated on his shoulders. He couldn't go a day without getting bruised in some sparring match. "Jesus, no wonder all her kids survived. She dropped me 'fore I could get a hand on her."

"What about her husband?"

"Dropped him too. She's all about shamin' men out there."

"What about Asher?"

Daryl grimaced. She'd heard that the two of them weren't getting along, that Asher had given Glenn a horrible black eye during training, knocking him flat on his back. Everyone agreed that the larger, stronger man had been acting aggressively all day; Rick found a stash of cocaine in his cell and, after he called a meeting to discuss what would be done, Daryl wanted him thrown out. She knew that he regretted his decision, but he refused to change it. Rick had overridden him and decided to give Asher a second chance to get clean.

"Dumbass needs to watch his back," he murmured dismissively. His tone was dark, indicating she'd led him right into a bad mood, the worst mood to share what was on her mind.

She considered going back on her promise to herself, her agreement with Hershel. What was another day without knowing? How could it hurt? But the words were sitting so heavily on her that she couldn't keep them inside anymore. She sat silently for a few moments, watching him clean the dirt from his fingernails with a knife, and then she pushed the blankets off of herself. His eyes flickered up, and then back down.

She took a breath, unzipped her coat, and pulled it off. He didn't look up. She rested both hands on her stomach, which now protruded at least two inches from her pelvis in a smooth, curved line. When she looked up again, he was staring at her, appearing puzzled. His eyes shot downward and the pull of his brows deepened.

"I'm pregnant," she said, breathing out with those words, fear and anxiety bundling up in her chest. She watched him for any change, terrified to see his lips shift into a scowl, his eyes narrow, his fist clench around the knife.

She almost expected him to hit her. His body became so tense, his expression so malevolent; she could already feel that knife, she could already feel the sting in her cheek. But he just sat there, staring at her, stiff, enraged, and surprised.

"Say something," she pleaded, pulling the blankets protectively over herself, wishing her voice didn't crackle pitifully with every syllable. "Daryl…" She reached out. It was the most defenseless, wishful motion she could think of. She wanted to touch his arm, to hold his hand, to be comforted by someone so close to her, whose opinion she took to heart.

But he pulled away from her, recoiling like he was disgusted by the thought of her hand touching his skin. He stood, flung the door open so hard that the blankets detached, that the mirror behind it shattered into a thousand pieces, and left the cell. She didn't go after him. She couldn't feel her legs. She just stared at the place he'd been, completely numb, sobs building up in her chest, just begging to be released in another display of useless sadness.

She felt sick. She felt like she was drowning. She felt like cold, dark water was pouring over her, stealing the heat from her veins, putting out whatever dim flame Cane had been able to light. Whatever she'd been hoping for – a good life, a happy family, a healthy child – flared up with longing, reached out for the light at the end of this long, exhausting tunnel, and then died in a wisp of smoke. The things she'd been feeling upon discovering her condition were amplified, the depression more like a steam-roller flattening her body, the anxiety so powerful that it made her head ache and her stomach bubble, the prospect of death bringing itself to the very front of the sinking ship she'd willingly boarded.

_Yes_, she thought. _It would be better that way. It would be better for him if I wasn't here._

XxX

Daryl sat alone on the roof of the prison, staring at the distant trees, his mind pouring over every detail of what he'd seen in Carol's cell. Her body, swollen with new life, her eyes searching for something in him but never finding it, her hand reaching out, so soft, trembling, waiting for him to step up and be a good man, like she thought he was. He stared at his own hands, caked with dirt, blood, callouses; those weren't the hands for holding a baby, for touching her. Those were his father's hands. It was all so clear now. He could remember them lashing out in the darkness, finding contact with his sons, breaking them because he didn't know what to think of them. He had his father's hands, and his father's temper. He had his voice, his face. Years of struggling with what that man had done to him came down to this: becoming him.

But there was something so different about them. Daryl loved a good woman. He loved her, and though she was too good for him, she loved him, too. She was nice, so kind to everyone, so valuable to the group because she was like their guardian angel, always watching out for the kids, always making others laugh. She was in the center of the group, the heart of it, the soul of what made them survivors. And what was he? A hermit. He could step up in a social setting, but he preferred not to. It made him feel like a sore thumb trying to look like the rest of the fingers. He didn't know everybody's names, and the names he did know rarely matched up with faces. If Carol was an integral part of the group, a gear that kept everything turning, he was a pile of gunk stuck in the engine; no matter how hard they tried, they couldn't get him out.

He refused to be his father, to leave his kid, to make his kid's mom feel like shit, but he knew that he was doing it right now. The look on her face as he left was haunting. But what was he supposed to do? He didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to act in this situation. He'd never faced the prospect of being a father before, and though it made him feel like he could do something great with his life, he was aware of the possibility of failure. He didn't want to say something that he couldn't take back, he didn't want to make promises; he didn't know how to comfort he when he felt so raw on the outside. The energy in his arms was explosive. He just wanted to hit something, to smash something, to take this anger and make it tangible. But Carol had been looking at him like she should take the hit, like she deserved it. Was that what his face said? That he wasn't man enough to step up? That he was enough of a pussy to take it out on someone who had no interest in defending herself? He couldn't. He wouldn't do that.

While these thoughts worked their way through his mind, he was joined by Hershel, who had found a way to climb the ladder with only one leg. He hobbled to Daryl and stared toward the back of the prison. "Would you look at that? Seems like it's gonna storm again."

Daryl sighed, stood, and followed his eyes. Sure enough, massive gray clouds were forming in the distance, making their way toward the prison. He walked with Hershel to that side of the roof and helped him sit down on the edge, crouching himself.

"So, Carol told you."

He nodded, unable to work up any anger toward the old man. Hiding it must've been Carol's decision. He couldn't get mad at Hershel for that.

"I'm optimistic about her condition – Carol's a healthy woman, and the baby's developing at a normal rate. It important that she keeps warm and eats well." He touched Daryl's shoulder, smiling in that old, fatherly way he had. "Listen to me, son. When Maggie was born, I didn't know if I could be a good father to her; I thought I would be just like my daddy – just a shadow on the wall sometimes. Everything I thought about myself was wrong. When I held her in my arms I knew I was a better man than the one who raised me, and I made some mistakes, sure, but look how my little girl turned out. She's strong, and healthy, and in love. I did that."

"I'm not like you," Daryl said simply, putting all of his thoughts into one statement.

Hershel shrugged. "You don't have to be like me. You don't have to be like anybody else. Not like Rick, not like Tyreese; but you do have to be a father. That woman in there is in love with you, and I know you care about her, I can see it in you – she's alone, and she's scared. She thinks you've abandoned her. She lost everything, and she's never tried to blame it on anybody but herself; she needs you to tell her everything's gonna be alright."

"You tell her."

"She won't hear it if I say it."

Daryl let out a breath he'd been holding and helped the old man up. He was right. He was planning it out in his head as they walked together to C-block, thinking of what he'd say, how he'd squash everything he felt and push it away to keep her from being afraid of him. That was the last thing he wanted. There was a time she'd flinch when men moved too fast around her, when she'd withdraw from an argument because she felt that she'd been wrong all along; he could recall a time when Ed had been alive, when he'd pulled her around by her arm, glaring at her like she'd done something other than what he wanted. But she wasn't that person anymore, and he'd be damned if he was the reason she reverted. She'd come too far, grown too much.

He had worked up a descent amount of confidence as they came through the door. He saw Marcus standing by the stairs, ordering Cane to stop playing on them. "Get off the stairs. What'd I _just_ say? Knowin' you, you'll fall and bust your head open. You're too damn clumsy to be playin' on the stairs." His words seemed harsh, almost careless, but when Cane stumbled on the last step he caught his son with one arm and delivered him safely to the ground.

Hershel looked pointedly at Daryl, who shrugged it off and climbed the steps two at a time. He paused outside her cell, suppressing whatever he was feeling so he wouldn't act like an ass, and then he stepped inside.

She was gone.


	17. Zero

It was storming again, this time more violently, as if it knew that she was out here and it wanted cause her physical pain to match the torrent going on in her head. Every few steps she stumbled, slipping in mud, reaching out and grasping thorns in an effort to stay upright. As much as she was crying, she didn't look where she was going; she didn't keep track of where she turned, what direction she'd gone in, where the prison was, where the creek was. Her thoughts didn't even make sense anymore, too convoluted, too struck by the cold and the rain and the flashing of lightning, too scared of the impending darkness, looming over her like death incarnate. Her only clear instinct was to get away. She had to get away from that place. She couldn't see his face again, she couldn't stand the shame of hiding, the turmoil of hating the child in her stomach, the thought of replacing her precious daughter with this _thing_ that had only caused her grief.

She didn't know how long she'd been wandering in the forest, or why she was bleeding, or what she was thinking about. Nothing was clear anymore. A very frail part of her mind had been shattered, a part that she'd never reinforced, a part she never thought she'd see again. It was that familiar pain; to feel useless, to feel hopeless, to see nothing but agony at the end of the day with no way of sparing herself. It was cowardice, hating to look at her own face, hating to move in her own skin, hating the tears on her cheeks because she knew they were what made her weak. She wasn't strong enough for this world. She was just what she'd always dreaded – baggage, carried around as a dead weight, sucking up the food and the warmth, but giving nothing back.

How could anyone ask her to live like that? She collapsed against an old, rotting tree, her hands going through the trunk as she tried to catch herself. Gasping in disgust, sobs still rolling up her throat, she fell away from it, shaking the wood and slime from her hands. Her chest heaved, her lungs ready to give out for all the crying and running she'd done in this thick undergrowth, but she still scrambled to her feet and went on, driven by something she didn't understand, something immeasurable and malicious that had always lived in her mind.

She found the river, which the lightning illuminated in crisp detail, which overflowed with icy water, all of it rushing downhill. Its voice was the strongest in the forest, stronger than the thunder, stronger than her crying. She approached it cautiously, looking down at it, walking to the edge several times and then pacing back into the forest. What if she just stepped over the edge? What if she just went underwater and stayed there? Would she stop seeing her daughter's face emerging from the barn that day? Would she escape the blame she put on herself for lying under that car, ten feet away, and watching her daughter run for her life? Would this child in her stomach die before it could ever be born, before she could inflict herself on it, like she had everyone in the group?

It would be better that way. She knew it would. But something held her back. She couldn't take that step, she couldn't step into the death she'd been avoiding for over a year and a half now. She made up her mind to keep moving, to leave, but to stay alive; that decision came a moment too late.

She moved back, but the ground beneath her gave way, loosened by the storm that had swollen the river. Her body went straight down the bank and plunged into the dark water. She scraped with her hands, pushing herself up only to be struck by a rock and dragged back to the bottom. Her lungs filled with ice, her eyes burning, her limbs kicking and grasping in every direction to stop her rapid trip downstream. She emerged several times and took powerful breaths, clawing at the shore, clinging to roots, rocks, and long grasses, but the water had most of her body and it wasn't letting go. It was too strong. She was struck with the desire to live just as she was thrown down a short, rocky slope, which caught her body and let the water run around her.

She lay half in the river, her eyes open to gaze at the sky. Lightning rolled through the storm clouds, illuminating her watery grave. She was breathing, but she felt weakness in every part of her body. Was she bleeding? She felt like she was draining, so she must've been cut. She must've been running out of blood. She heaved herself onto her side and, gasping, realized it was her left leg that was injured. It felt like something was lodged in her leg. She strained to see it by the light of the lightning, but there was only darkness in that direction. Was it still attached?

She groaned, rolled into a sitting position, and drug herself from the water, trembling uncontrollably as she half-crawled onto the sandy shore. Cold pierced every part of her body, invading like a virus, making her perspective perfectly clear, but freezing. She regretted coming out here, wandering around like an idiot in the middle of the storm, and now that her mind was mostly clear, she realized she'd been trying to kill herself.

She might've even succeeded.

XxX

Rick had gathered Glenn, Maggie, Hershel, Dave, Carl, Beth, Daryl, and Tyreese in the dining room directly after learning about Carol's disappearance. He questioned each of them on her state of mind, her pregnancy, her secretive nature in the last few days. To most of them, the fact that she was troubled was news; she was always smiling, always eager to be a part of the group. Daryl paced the room and listened to them talk, gleaning what he could from their accounts of what she'd been up to while he was gone. He already had a plan in his head, places to check, obstacles that would've slowed her down. If Rick hadn't of locked the door, he would've been out there already.

"Listen to me, Daryl, just listen. You can't go out there. It's dark, and it's storming, and you're not gonna do her any good until you can see where you're going." Rick put a hand on his chest to stop his pacing, speaking in a level tone. "Just _think_."

"I _am_ thinking," he snapped, shoving the other man away. "I'm thinkin' that you're afraid of a little rain so you won't take your pansy ass out there. Give me the _keys_." He lunged, only to be pulled away by Tyreese. He elbowed and squirmed, but Tyreese was stronger. "You best let me go," he growled, trying with all of his might to break free. Glenn stepped closer, as if to help one of them, but he didn't seem to know who he should be aiding.

Rick tossed the keys to Carl and approached, "Look at yourself. Just calm down. We can talk through this." He nodded to Tyreese and Daryl was released. He slumped to the floor, frustrated. Rick came and crouched in front of him. "She's probably hunkered down somewhere nearby. At first light we'll sweep the woods and find her, safe and sound. You just need to calm down; all this rage ain't gonna help Carol."

Those words struck him in an unintentional way. His behavior is what had driven her to leave, and now she was out there in this mess, probably freezing, caught in a mud slide, waiting for him to come and get her like he always did. As much passion as that provoked in him, he knew that Rick was right. Storms were at their most dangerous this time of night, blocking out the light of the moon, stirring up the walkers, felling trees and starting fires. He wouldn't be able to see the trail. He'd probably just muck it up as he was trying to read it. But he also knew that the morning would be too late to read anything.

He backed off, putting both hands over his face and trying to steady himself. Rick put his arm around his shoulders, murmuring, "Just wait, just wait until first light and I'll be out there with you; we'll bring her home. We're not losing anybody else."

Daryl sat in the dining room all night, staring at the locked door with the darkest of intentions. He was visited repeatedly by Hershel, but he ignored him and even snatched one of his crutches, throwing it across the room to get him to leave him alone. Carl came to see him, asked him if he wanted something to eat, tried to get him to pet the dog, and then left when he was ignored. Rick sat with him for a while, getting his attention because he brought a rough map of the forest. Daryl began working out routes she might've taken, marking colonies of thorn bushes, ditches, streams, rivers, and piles of dead trees which would've been huge obstacles in such a storm. Rick was as helpful as he could be, suggesting paths based on Carol's experience and personality, but they both knew if she'd gone out in this storm alone, she wasn't in her right mind.

Sometime around three in the morning, Daryl went back into the cell block and crashed, unable to keep his eyes open any longer. When he woke up, the sun was close to rising, but the world was still dark. He crept into the dining room, checked the lock, and cursed under his breath. He went back to pacing, loading and unloading his pistol, glaring at the dark cell block.

Rick came out not long after him, hanging him a backpack with some food, water, and medical supplies. He shrugged his own on and loaded his gun, checking the safety. They ate a small breakfast to get their strength up and then left, jogging toward the gate. She had opened the locks and left them there. All it took was one walker to bump against the metal to open it.

Sharing an uneasy look, their faces illuminated solely by the glare of the flashlights on the ground, they set off in different directions, saying they would meet back two hours after sunrise.

Daryl took the left, where the stream met the river, immediately finding signs that Carol had been through the underbrush. The flowers were trampled, the vines pushed aside, a few rotted branches split from being stepped on. He followed an erratic pattern through the woods, hoping she wasn't injured, hoping she hadn't caught something from being out in the cold. The storm had mostly passed, but the sky still released a soft drizzle, one that would add on to the slickness of the forest.

When he finally got to the end of the trail, he found a walker tangled up in some vines, turning toward him eagerly to take a bite. Frustrated that he'd wasted so much time, he put an arrow through its skull and went on, ignoring the rising sun and the fact that he should be meeting Rick soon. He wouldn't go back until he had something solid.

XxX

Owen had been perched on the roof, a rain hood held tight around his face, when she had left the prison. He'd seen the doors open and close, he'd watched the sobbing woman stumble across the muddy yard; he'd seen her fumble with the locks and stagger into the forest. He knew who she was the entire time, but he did nothing to stop her, partly because he didn't know what was happening, and partly because he didn't want anyone to know he snuck onto the roof. It was when the yelling started that he scrambled down and dried off, claiming to have been using the bathroom outside. He was asked about her by Daryl. He said he hadn't seen anything.

He felt guilty for that the next day, and now he stood against the far gate, watching the walkers press themselves into the metal as if they could phase through and get to him. He watched the place where she'd disappeared, a dark patch of forest full of vines and briars, and wondered how far she could make it in just one night. He tried to work himself up enough to go after her, convinced that, if he brought her back, he'd get to carry a gun like that other kid, Carl, but the idea fell through in its early stages. She was probably hurt. He thought of the two new kids and their aunt, who could barely walk when she got to the prison. He couldn't carry Carol, and he couldn't drag her. He was too small, too weak.

But he had to do something. She was as warm to him as his own mother had been, and though it made him weary at first, he'd grown accustomed to the idea of being taken care of again. His brother loved her very much, as well; it seemed that Cane was recovering, getting better, happier, stronger each time he spent the day with Carol. He couldn't let him go back to silence.

Eventually he made a decision, one that he didn't take lightly. He went to his father's cell, stepped inside, and told him what he'd seen.

His father looked at him with every bit of the anger and resentment that had always flowed between them, and then he smiled in a wicked sort of way, reminding Owen why he never came to this cell. He wasn't afraid, but his father made him uneasy; what ran through _his_ mind when he thought of that woman all alone in the woods? It wasn't the same as what Owen was thinking.

"It's about time she went off without a body guard," he said, flicking the safety from his gun and putting it into its holster. He stood, put his hand lightly atop Owen's head, and sighed as if something was bothering him. Owen could see that it was a fake gesture, one meant to be sarcastic. "I'll try my best to bring her back, son, but… accidents happen."


	18. Deadly Angel

It was nearly sundown when Rick and Daryl finally met at the back of the prison, having combed the sodden forest for any signs of their missing group member nonstop the entire day. Despite their desire to find her, the conviction that both men had to the task, they were exhausted, hungry, slightly dehydrated, and trembling from the cold winds, which brought in more storms. It had been drizzling on and off, enough to keep them soaked and uncomfortable in their clothes, enough to keep the paths slick and make the gentlest hills into difficult obstacles. When he saw Daryl covered in mud, his face drawn into a thoughtful frown, his posture still confident, he was relieved and concerned at the same time. He didn't know of their relationship before Carol had gone missing, perceiving them only as close friends and nothing more, but he could see what her absence was doing to his friend. He didn't grieve like other people. He was mostly the opposite. He seemed full of rage, still burning with the frustration that had caused him to be so rough with the other group members, now having spent the day in a fruitless search for the only person who, when she stood beside him, made him seem like a civil person; Rick knew that he was dangerous, but only toward those who got in his way. It was best that they were the only ones conducting the search.

He needed convincing, but eventually Daryl agreed to call it a night and head inside. While the other man was perched on one of the dining room's circular tables, Rick prepared them a quick, hot meal that would sate their bellies enough to let them sleep. Hershel came in, kind despite how angry Daryl had been with him earlier, and sewed up a few wounds on the man's stomach and upper arm, saying nothing, only smiling slightly at Rick. It was a sad smile.

"Sorry for… taking your crutch," Daryl apologized as Hershel was leaving, having found some of his lost manners upon watching the man repair his body. When Hershel smiled at him, nodded, and told him that he understood his frustration, Daryl had no answer. He stared in that direction until Rick dropped a bowl in front of him.

They talked about search plans for the following day, planning to enlist able-bodied group members to sweep the forests in several lines fanning out from the front gate. Walkers became a hitch in their plan, and they had to lessen the numbers to those that could defend themselves, or get away, without panicking and losing sight of the others. Weary for more losses, they again narrowed the list to exclude the inexperienced, and the unknowns, such as Diane Anders and her pilot husband, and Asher Donovan, who Daryl threatened to shoot when nobody was looking.

When they had eaten, scrubbed the muck from their bodies, and thrown their clothes out for whoever felt like washing them, they called it a night. Rick barely slept, awakening before dawn again and finding that Daryl had already returned to the dining room. He still felt tired, like he'd only slept for moments, but he went routinely through their preparations, packed up the map, and went to wake up the people they'd decided to take.

The lines were established by dawn. Daryl went over basic tracking, telling them what to look for, when they should call out, and when they should run for their lives. Everyone got a pack, a flashlight in case they got lost and darkness fell, water, a bit of food, and matches. Rick and Daryl stood at the gate while they began walking outwards.

It wasn't three hours later that Maggie picked up a subtle sign in the riverbank, which had been covered by a felled tree. She'd supposed the tree fell after the storms, which was correct, and checked underneath, only to discover a large imprint with a distinct handprint frozen in the mud beside it. She retrieved Daryl and Rick and they went to check it out.

"It was definitely her," Daryl announced, crouching on the bank with his hand on the blurred shape. He looked around, his eyes narrowed with thought. Soon Rick found himself following Daryl through the undergrowth, heading away from the prison, but at a sharp eastward angle. "She must've fallen in somewhere back there, got out here; it was raining." He paused on the steep bank, prodding a strained root with his hand. "She was injured, or she would've got up and walked up this hill. She dragged herself." He led them into a small meadow, and then further into the forest, where he lost the trail and spent several minutes trying to pick it up. Finally he spotted a few drops of blood covered by some fresh pine needles. "Yeah, she's hurt."

They jogged together for about a mile, and then stopped in a smaller clearing, where the blood trail ended. Daryl walked around for a while, surveying the area, and then he came back at Maggie's call. Rick crouched by him and they stared at the ground, the exact spot where the blood trail ended. Maggie flicked back some leaves, which had blocked their view of a deep impression in the fallow ground beneath the grass.

Daryl sounded as concerned as he did curious. "She's not alone."

XxX

Carol sat by a small fire, her entire body convulsing from the chill of the wind, the lack of food and water making her eyes a bit blurry and her mind a bit slow. Adrenaline tried to force itself back into her system each time he returned to check that she wasn't dead, but eventually it became as weak as the words he said. It had been two full days since she'd awakened on the shore and drug herself from the open, finding the strength to go back to the prison and face her fears. Unfortunately she didn't know which way it was, and she ended up walking for an eternity only to find unfamiliar landmarks. Night was trying to kill her, bringing violent cold and fierce winds, but someone unexpected had come to her rescue.

He sat by her now, having given up whatever he was doing all day to sit by the fire and stare into it, considering something. He'd found her in that field and carried her here, wherever _here_ was, saying at first that he was sent out to find her, and then admitting that he'd come on his own. He didn't tell her why. She only knew that he was rough with her, grasping her arm and dragging her from place to place, carrying her when she refused to budge. He'd tied her hands behind her back and left her sitting in this position all day, going out to do whatever it was he did, returning to make sure she hadn't been eaten. He sat by her not as a savior, as a guardian angel, but as a captor who'd been excited to find her before her friends.

When the sun was gone, he put out the fire and pulled her into the tent he'd set up just within the trees, where it couldn't be spotted. He made her sit in the corner while he zipped it up, then he came to sit a little too close, gazing at her. She thought at first that he was looking at her chest, which made her insides squirm, but he was looking at her stomach – her baby. She didn't know if she could feel more terrified than she did under his eyes.

"You're lucky I tracked ya down," he said, unfolding his knife with one swift motion. She swallowed. "It was mighty stupid of you to come out here like that, braving the storm just so you could prove a point to Daryl. I think he got the message. He's pretty pissed."

She tried to move away as the knife came in her direction, but he stilled her by putting his arm around her shoulders. He pressed the tip of the knife to her stomach and applied a very slight pressure, one that couldn't pierce the skin, but that came too close for her comfort. "He doesn't want kids. He said it himself." The knife moved and she released a breath. "I mean, he likes 'em and all, but who would want to have kids with you? I heard you lost your daughter because you couldn't look after her. What a shame. I still got my boys."

"Let me go," she demanded quietly, still eyeing the knife in his hands.

He smiled wickedly. "Let you go? You're barely alive, doll. How far do you think you're gonna get without my help? I got that stick ought of your leg, and I didn't even hear a thank you, and now you just want to go wandering around in these woods after dark, in the middle of this storm's rolling in?"

"I'll take my chances."

"I can't let you do that." He sighed. He'd taken her pants off to perform a quick, painful surgery on her shin, stopping the bleeding and wrapping it up with the supplies in his backpack, but he never gave them back, leaving her in her underwear on a cold night. It wasn't sexual, though. Carol knew it was about power. He wanted to make her as uncomfortable as possible.

"Fine. Give me my jeans, then. If you care so much."

He watched her face for a moment, considering it, and then he reached over and retrieved the jeans, pressing them into her lap. He played with his knife while she struggled to get them on, his eyes never leaving the reflective metal. "David use to think knives were evil; at every foster home he got made fun of because he took the knife off of his plate and gave it to the adults, like it was gonna jump right off that plate and cut him up."

"Let me go, Marcus."

"Now that's rude, interrupting a story. I was just thinkin' about it. Now I'm not so sure. Shouldn't let you go back to your own death, should I? After all, the group has decided."

She stared at him, unsure of the sarcasm in his voice. It seemed inlaid with honesty. "What are you talking about?"

"Daryl. And Rick. And that Asian kid. They think it's about time you stopped throwin' a hissy fit every time you didn't get your way." He cocked an eyebrow, his voice full of faux sympathy, "I know, I know, it's not fair, but this is a brand new world we're steppin' into. Gotta narrow the gene pool, keep the human race strong. What do you think?"

"I think you're full of shit."

He chuckled. He was about to say something, no doubt to continue his teasing, to make fun of her, to degrade her in some way or another, but he never got those words out. His body stiffened, his hand shooting up, palm out, in an indication of silence. He turned first to the back of the tent, where some small, insignificant sound had originated, and then he looked to the front.

"Stand up, walk outside, and try to stay calm."

She stared at him, unsure.

"Go, or we're both dead."

Carol was sure that he was caught, that Daryl had finally found her and he was creeping around outside the tent, a threat to Marcus, but not to her. She stepped out with that notion in her head, bracing herself against the cold and looking around expectantly, the familiar glow of hope rising up in her body. She felt the baby stirring, making her a bit nauseas with its movements, as if it, too, was expecting him to come.

But it wasn't Daryl. It wasn't anyone from the group, anyone she would've loved to see. As Marcus got out, packing the tent in mere moments, throwing on his bag with the efficiency and skill of a former soldier, the woods behind the tent erupted with life – or, rather, the undead. Her heart leapt into her throat at their numbers; dozens of them wobbling through the undergrowth, catching their scent and moving more eagerly, more hungrily. It was a herd as large as the one that had overrun the farm, as quick as those that once wandered in the prison basement.

Marcus began dragging her, and when she realized she wasn't walking, she pulled away and did her best to jog for safety. Her leg ached and her stomach slowed her, both of them making her feel that she was trying to run through quicksand. Marcus, surprisingly, kept pace with her, superior in his fitness, but remaining at her right shoulder and egging her on with prods to the back and derogatory phrases; the thought of being left behind drifted beneath the thought of being eaten alive, and feeling teeth sink into her flesh suddenly seemed more likely.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, here," Marcus whispered, grabbing her and directing her to a clearing. She tried to object, to go in another direction, but he was stronger. He pushed her into the open, where she was sure they'd be captured, and then she saw what this was.

It was a junkyard, probably abandoned over fifty years ago, with no fences surrounding it, but a multitude of old, rusty cars, broken appliances, shattered windows, massive concrete pipes, and pieces of salvaged architecture. The two of them navigated the glass and dove into one of the taller pipes, which stood four feet and cancelled out the sunlight; Marcus drug a piece of sheet metal in front of it, slinking back toward Carol when the herd emerged from the forest. They were both crouched, staring with wide eyes at the cracks in the makeshift door, listening to the feet dragging by. Marcus covered them both with the muck at the bottom of the tunnel, hiding their scent, keeping the walkers from looking any closer at the piece of metal.

She had been hoping that Daryl would find her, but now she wished for him to be anywhere but this forest, where he would surely encounter this herd. He would collide with them, and he'd have to think fast to stay alive. It worried her. It made her anxious. But Marcus also made her anxious. She didn't know what he wanted, why he seemed fixated on her baby, why he'd saved her, acted like a schoolyard bully, threatened her, and then saved her again.

The enemy was outside, desiring to make a meal out of her, but there was a much greater threat sitting right beside her, his face dripping with mud, his eyes glinting in the darkness. He was a man who could've been a murderer, who could've been a child abuser – in fact, she was sure he was both, and that he wouldn't hesitate to kill her and the baby in her stomach – and he was right there, breathing on her shoulder, his knife in his hand.

He was going to kill her. She knew it.


	19. Marcus

**Welcome to chapter nineteen, where things get a little complicated for Carol. I must warn you, this chapter is an important piece of the puzzle that is our lovely friend, Marcus. It's important to note how things are said. I hope you enjoy this one. I had a lot of fun writing it.**

XxX

For several hours they crouched in the darkness, listening intently as the herd moved around the old junkyard. Whenever one stumbled, causing a racket, the others would shuffle back to it excitedly, and then spread out again, as if they sensed the survivors hiding in the tunnel but couldn't zero in on their location. Eventually Carol's legs began to tremble and she had to sit down, her body sinking into the muck, her thighs freeing in the stagnant water. Marcus sat beside her, breaking a twig into several pieces to occupy himself. She watched him for a while, and then laid her head against the concrete and began to daydream about the prison.

The night wore on with little to no warmth; Marcus offered to cuddle, but she denied him, scooting several feet away to make it clear that she'd rather die from the cold than exchange body heat. He took it with a sly smile and went on shredding whatever foliage he could find, his hands barely outlined by the moonlight that filtered through their metal door. At some point after midnight, Marcus woke Carol up and forced her to put on the jacket he'd been wearing, stopping the violent shivers that had invaded her dreams. She fell asleep again and woke to utter darkness – the moon was on the other side of the tunnel, fading from the sky. She heard Marcus breathing, but she couldn't see him.

Their hiding place was so close to perfect that Carol let herself relax. She fell asleep in the darkness and had a dream unmarred by anxiety. It was an unfortunate occurrence, though, as one of the walkers tripped and hit the metal full force, bringing her out of her dream and provoking a short, high pitched squeal. The metal collapsed into the tunnel and she saw dozens of writhing bodies making their way to the entrance.

Marcus slapped his hand over her face, pulling her into a half-crouch toward the darkest end of the tunnel; she felt the concrete slope under her feet, as if it went underground, and she could smell death drifting up toward them. She knew it was their safest bet to go down, but she felt that she would never see the light of day again. Marcus felt the same way. They hovered there, indecisive, and waited until they were sure they'd been discovered. The walkers sniffed around the entrance and then stepped inside, scraping their faces on the walls, crowding to get first in line.

"Run, go down!" Marcus growled, pushing her toward the blackness. When she resisted, he used both hands to send her staggering into the widening tunnel, shoving her further and further into the still, cold, foreboding air.

She didn't know how long they walked, or how long it was until the sound of groaning faded into the background. Her heart was on fire, filled with the worst type of fear – fear of the dark, the most natural and dominant of all human fears. Here there was death, eternity, lack of light, lack of hope, the smell of rotting things, of what lie beneath their happy homes. In the darkness there was no distinction between directions; two people wandered in what felt like a stadium-sized tunnel system, their voices echoing a hundred times on every side, their hands reaching out and only finding what felt like flesh, what must've been the tunnel's last residents.

As much as she wished to escape Marcus, she didn't wander off in the tunnel, partly because he had a hand grasping her arm the entire time, and partly because she would be petrified by fear if she had to face this place alone. He was a revolting person, but he was human, and that made him an ally in this situation.

In one of the larger tunnels, which felt more like a room because of the draft, Marcus and Carol froze at the sound of groaning. Walkers. But where were they? The sounds echoed off of every concrete wall, giving the illusion of being surrounded – when Carol began to hyperventilate, finding that her lungs closed from the fear she was experiencing, Marcus squeezed her arm so hard that she thought he was going to break it. She twisted from his grip only to be held by the other arm, receiving a threat that also bounced around the room. "Get yourself together or I'll break it."

Those words brought the walkers to them. Fighting in the dark is a lot like having a battle with twisted up sheets. Carol couldn't figure out what part of the walkers was attacking her, where she should try to hit it, or where Marcus had gone, she only knew that if she didn't get it worked out, she would shove her hand in its mouth and die a violent death. She felt its head craning for her, its reeking breath all over her face, spraying chunks of whatever it had eaten last; she kept her mouth and eyes closed, its wrists in her grip, and tried to kick it off. That put her off balance and she slipped in the muck. The walker grabbed for her leg and she kicked it as many times as she could before it fell away into the darkness – where had it gone?

She got to her feet, her back to the wall, and stared around as if she hoped the blackness would finally clear. She could hear Marcus grunting curses, the growls of a walker, and something sloshing around not far away, but she had no way to defend herself. Something was crushed, probably the walker's skull, and Marcus came toward her. She dodged his hands, which scraped along the wall, and ignored his voice, running for what she hoped would be a tunnel entrance. This was her chance. The fear of being alone was overcome by the fear of being eaten alive, and that fear was nothing compared to the way Marcus made her feel. She didn't know him, she didn't know what he wanted. She didn't know if he would rape her, if he would torture her, if he would take her further from the prison, if he would slit her throat and leave her for dead. The fear of the unknown was a powerful motivator.

Unfortunately, she found the walker she'd been battling. She felt its grip getting stronger as it got ready to bite; she heard its groans getting closer. She craned her neck away, aware of teeth clenching just a few inches from her throat, and her heart sank. She didn't want to die anymore, and she certainly didn't want to be killed in the dark with no chance of ever being found. She did all she could to shove the walker away, but she hadn't eaten in so long, and her throat was so dry; the adrenaline could only take her so far.

It was Marcus who killed the walker in the end, pulling it off of her and flinging it away. She heard its skull crunching under his boot. He was panting, gasping, but he didn't want to stop. He grabbed her arm and continued their march into the darkness of the tunnel.

XxX

The sun was rising as they left the tunnels and came upon the forest again. She'd never been so happy to see trees and to feel that cold, biting wind. Marcus tied her hands once more and made her sit in a clearing while he went out. She was too tired to conspire to get away, letting her head fall against the trunk and her eyes slide shut. He came back with a pot full of water, which he boiled over a small, smoky fire. The forest was soaking wet, dark, and gloomy, leading Marcus into a different kind of mood. Carol sensed it and said nothing. She did what he asked without question, aware of an uneasiness in him. She felt that she was carefully sidestepping a snake without ever leaving its company.

"Here, drink," he offered her water a few hours later, letting it become cold before pouring it into two servings. Carol drunk eagerly, her throat soothed by the liquid. He untied her hands at about noon and let her go off on her own to use the bathroom; she found herself crying behind a tree for a while, the fear and anxiety taking hold. He came after her, dragged her by her coat back to camp, and then put her next to the fire. She stared at it.

He boiled more water, let it cool, and then they both drank; this was preparation to move on. He packed up his things and made her stand, sighing every time she stumbled. "Believe it or not, I'm taking you back." He said it matter-of-factly with a tinge of sarcasm. She had a hard time believing anything he told her. "I just don't know where the hell those tunnels took us – could be halfway to Tennessee by now."

"Let me go. I'll find my own way."

"Now that wouldn't be very gentlemanly of me. After all, you're still injured." As if that thought had provoked some repressed schoolyard bully hidden in him today, he kicked her leg out from under her and smiled when she scowled at him. He lifted her by the collar of her shirt, unzipped the jacket, and shoved it in his bag. "Cold keeps you alert," he explained, chuckling to himself. "I ever tell ya you got nice shoulders?"

She breathed out heavily through her nose. "Daryl's gonna kill you. I hope you know that."

"Yeah, look at me, quakin' in my boots." He kept her walking, rubbing her shoulders whenever she shivered; eventually she learned to suppress it, if only to keep his hands off of her.

At midday Carol felt that she couldn't walk anymore. Her belly was aching for food, her head throbbing, her skin tight and pained from the cold, her eyes burning, her throat unbearably dry. She didn't complain for fear of provoking her captor, but her condition showed in the way she walked – she tripped over nothing, staggered forward, and swayed from side-to-side, unable to keep to a straight line to save her life. Marcus gave up on threatening her and told her he'd find a place they could rest; that thought let her walk a little easier for a while.

They came upon an old building made of cinderblocks, tucked away in the woods. It was some sort of hunting cabin, or a hiking checkpoint, with a small car parked out front and a dog wandering around outside. They stood uneasily at the edge of the forest, stared down by ninety pounds of fur and teeth, before Marcus stepped out and provoked a long, deep growl.

"Easy now, Fido," he purred, holding his left hand out. He had his gun under his right palm. "I just wanna check out your digs here, just wanna see if there's a bed my friend here can curl up on for a few hours. Don't mean no harm." The dog charged. Marcus dropped his hand, pulled out a hatchet, and swung it. Carol cringed and looked away, her eyes watering at the sound of the animal whimpering.

Marcus retrieved her and dragged her inside past the corpse of the dog, saying something about a dog-eat-dog world and laughing cruelly. The door was open, making this place the dog's obvious shelter; some of the food had been torn apart and devoured, but the cans were only gnawed on. Marcus popped open some green beans and handed them to Carol cold, rifling through the rest of the building while she sat on the couch. She stared at the window, expecting to see walkers arrive to drive them off.

He came to sit beside her with a bag of pork skins he'd found on the top shelf. As he munched, he said, "What a beautiful animal that was – Dobermans always were my favorite." She looked at him in disgust and he shrugged. "That dog would've tore that baby out of your stomach and swallowed it whole without a lick of remorse. I did you a favor."

"It was just scared."

"So was I. Did you see the teeth on it?" he smiled in that wicked way he had, sitting back as if he was watching the game on the old fashioned TV in front of them. "I'd do anything for a little playboy action right about now. You think he's still alive? I hope the bunnies survived."

She rolled her eyes and looked at the window, finishing her food but still feeling empty inside. She took another can he'd opened and began scooping peaches out with her fingers.

"How 'bout you, uh, satisfy my craving?" He ran his finger down her shoulder and she jerked away from him. He smiled. "That's rude, doll baby." He forced his arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer, sighing to himself. "What made you so skittish of me?"

"Owen told me what you did."

She regretted saying it the moment it left her mouth. She realized then what his trigger was, why he seemed like a time bomb whenever she saw his smug face, why she felt so weary when he was as close to her as he was now. He smacked the can from her hands, grabbed her face, and stared at her with dark eyes, bringing new definition to rage. She'd never seen so much hatred coming from one person, so much insanity blending with confusion, making him more dangerous because he didn't seem to know what he wanted to do to her, how he should react to those words.

He only whispered, "Did he now?" His voice was tight, raspy. Staring into his eyes now, she realized that he looked a lot like Dave, who was his polar opposite as far as behavior was concerned. Tall, strong, deep brown skin, scars on the forearms, the neck, the nose. And those eyes. Burning hazel eyes. Like staring into a forest fire.

She didn't respond to his question and he released her, sliding from the couch and crouching in front of her. "What did he tell you?" Marcus demanded, resting one hand on her knee. He stared at her with both desperation and conviction; the insanity necessary to behave this way, and the determination to take it to such a level. "What did he _say_?" His voice boomed, making her jump. He stood, looming over her, and grabbed her face again, pushing her into the couch. "Tell me, or I'll cut out your tongue and see if you feel like writing it _down_."

Trembling, speaking through his constricting hands, she said, "You killed his mother."

He released her and stood straight, his expression unreadable. "Do you believe that?"

She nodded, swallowing so hard it hurt her throat.

"I did." He stepped back, the rage falling away. He let her get in a few long breaths while he rifled through the cabinets again, finding a package of jerky and returning to stand in front of her, gazing down at it. "I did, I killed my wife." He looked up, those burning eyes narrowed, "I knew he told you. I just wanted to hear you say it."

She didn't know what to think or how long he'd known she had that information, but he didn't seem angry about it. The idea itself was what enraged him. Now he seemed to relax, finding a solemn mood that brought relative peace to the cabin. Eventually he told her that he'd known since Owen had told her. Apparently he'd been watching them for a moment before he came out to piss his son off and send him inside with the others. That thought chilled her. She'd gone with him, Daryl, and Carl on that supply run, and he'd known all along that she believed he was a murderer. He'd let it settle in her mind. And now he was admitting it. He said it straight out. He killed his wife, just like his son said.

"Why?"

It was nearly evening. Carol had rested on the couch for several hours while Marcus packed his bag with fresh supplies and boiled water for them to drink. He'd passed by her several times before, saying nothing, giving up his bully routine to leave her with her own thoughts, and she chose the time when he went to the window to check the forest to ask him that question.

He paused, looked at her with that solemn expression, and shrugged. "It doesn't matter. You already know who I am, don't you?" His words were bitter. She felt something else resting on his mind. As she often did in this new and confusing world, she struggled to change her opinion about him. He was, in some ways, a lot like Daryl and his brother, Merle; he was spiteful, set in his ways, mean because he felt like it, an antagonist because it was what he felt he did best, cold-hearted because anything else would show weakness. But she'd seen him with Cane that day, holding him, and she'd seen him smile at least once with genuine happiness, laughing at some joke told by his brother. She didn't know who he was. She really didn't.

"Owen said… he thought you would kill Cane."

He snorted, his hand on the window frame as he gazed outside. He spoke without looking back at her. "Kid's got issues."

"That simple, huh?"

He turned around and glared at her. "What do you want me to say? I got my kids this far, obviously I ain't gonna take 'em out and put 'em down because I thought it might be a laugh."

"Is that what you did to your wife?"

His glare shifted into a scowl. Her heart quickened at the ferocity of that expression. "I did what I had to do to keep my boys safe."

"Did she turn?"

"No." He came over to her, crouched, and stared into her eyes. She felt that he was trying to scare her, using whatever method he could to stop her from asking questions – short of getting violent. "Before this all started, I took her outside, put her on her knees, and shot her in the back of the head with my pistol. I buried her behind our house. Owen saw me do it."

She swallowed. His words were cold, but his expression was alive with emotion. She heard his voice break around a few words, she saw his lip tremble, she saw insecurity blaze through his eyes; he was crouching there to ask her for judgment, coming off as spiteful but, deep inside, bleeding. He was still dangerous, still unpredictable, still unstable, but Carol felt compassion for him. She had an affinity for reading people, for being there to protect them, to keep them from falling over the edge, and it came out of her now. Without thinking about it, she placed her hand on his cheek and smiled softly, whispering, "Why?"

His eyes shimmered. For a moment she thought he might answer. She could tell it would've cleared his name, that whatever was locked away inside was critically important to him, but he wasn't ready to let go of it yet. He jerked away, stood, and went back to the cabinets, his safety net, muttering something about women and their feelings. She sat with her hand still extended, tears forming in her eyes, wondering how he would've answered that question.


	20. Sick

It was the consensus that the two of them would sleep in the cabin that night, keeping out of the cold drizzle and avoiding the walkers who roamed the forest. Another storm came and went while Carol lay awake on the couch, her body pleasantly numb, her mind wandering. She thought of her cell, of Cane's arms wrapped around her neck, of Daryl's arms crossing over her chest, of a candle flickering on her little table. She lulled herself into peace, forgetting for a while that she was so far from home, that there was a psychopath curled up on the kitchen floor, holding his gun in one hand and a knife in the other. Her thoughts almost kept her from hearing a rustling a few feet from her head. When it finally reached her, she sat straight up and stared at the shadows.

She knew immediately that it wasn't a walker, but the idea of seeing a rat was equally unpleasant. She also thought of possums and raccoons, which could be dangerous this close up, and spiders, who would've come to this cabin to escape the cold outside. She drew both legs to her chest and waited for it to come into the moonlight.

It was a puppy. Her heart melted. She picked it up and wrapped it into her thin blanket, smiling when it began licking her hands and mewing. She recognized the breed – Doberman – and assumed it was what that dog outside had been guarding. It couldn't have been more than eight weeks old, a bit skinny, pretty heavy, sharp claws, prickly teeth. She couldn't see its color clearly in the dark, but it seemed to be much different than its mother; rusty brown rather than black.

Marcus stirred when he heard it mewing to her, coming to the couch with his knife drawn. She protected the pup with both arms and scowled at him, "He's not hurting anything. Just leave him be. I'll watch after him."

"That could be breakfast," he pointed out.

"You're sick."

He shrugged, yawned, and went back to his spot. Carol laid down, giggling softly when the puppy nuzzled himself into her chest, sensing her kindness, her compassion. Ed had never let her have a dog, but she'd been raised around them. Her daddy used to own a gorgeous shepherd, who helped him herd the cows and reign the bulls; that dog had been her best friend for seventeen years. She felt that affection as she stared at this pitiful little thing, watching him fall asleep. He provided her with much-needed warmth, and she gave him what Marcus had taken away. Protection.

In the morning she stood outside, the dog in her arms, and watched Marcus as he climbed to the roof of the cabin. He came back down practically bouncing. "Let's go. We managed to come around back, but we can get through the broken wall and head up to the cell block."

"How far?"

He motioned in the direction they would travel and they began walking; he looked doubtfully at the lanky puppy dozing off in her arms, saying, "You should call it Cujo." The dog looked at him with its head cocked sideways.

They walked for several hours, barely covering any ground as they navigated muddy slopes and flooded fields, all the while trying to avoid walkers. Her new companion was heavy and she began to feel the strain of carrying him, panting with the added weight of the dog and her ever-expanding stomach. Marcus wasn't dragging her by her arm anymore, which was the best of signs, and he stopped making jokes about frying the puppy for lunch. He seemed eager to get back to the prison, but Carol doubted him because it was illogical. Was hearing her say that he'd killed his wife his only reason for tormenting her? Had he really seen the prison from that height, or was he leading her into uncharted territory to end what he had started?

He spoke as mid-afternoon fell on them, having thought of his words for quite some time. They came out in a rush, lacking sarcasm and anger; they sounded hollow to her. "Emily was the love of my life. I thought everything was perfect – had two kids, my boys, and a newborn; Dean. Thought life couldn't get any better than that, you know?" He moved a vine, thought about it, and then ripped it from the tree. She flinched at the sudden movement. "But Emily was sick."

"Sick?"

"Sick."

A few moments passed. His words built up again. "She started hittin' on Cane and the baby for no reason. Slapped 'em around. Threw scissors and knives. Every day I'd come home and that kid was cryin' how his momma had hurt him; for a while I didn't believe it. She was so sweet most of the time, but… there was somethin' wrong with her. Somethin' nobody could see."

"W-what happened?"

"She drowned our youngest in the tub; came home and she was just… cryin', didn't know what to do with herself. She was fine later, took back what she said when the cops came, said it was an accident. I believed her. She gave Owen those scars he's got – I know you think I did it, but it ain't always the dad. Sure, he's a smartass, but he doesn't deserve that. He loved his momma. Loved her more than life itself."

"Why didn't you call the police?"

"She said she would turn it on me, tell everyone I did those things. They would believe her, too, and they'd take my boys. I knew it. So I did what I had to do. I knew she would go too far one day and kill Cane or Owen; I knew it was a matter of time before I lost another son." He paused, staring past her face. "Owen thinks I killed his baby brother and his mom. But _I did what I had to do_."

The repetition of that phrase was chilling. She went on following him, wishing she could go back to knowing nothing about him so that hating him was simple; she wanted enter the prison, greet her friends, and tell everyone that Marcus couldn't stay with them. She wanted to tell them how cruel he had been, how much he scared her. But his story was very real. Women could be just as dangerous to their children as men. She'd always suspected that he'd hurt his kids, that he'd done something so horrible to Cane that the little boy barely spoke, but she realized now that his coldness toward them stemmed from something inside of him, a turmoil he couldn't overcome. As much as she wanted to hate him for the shit he'd put her through, the fights he'd caused, the way he'd antagonized Daryl and acted like a happy psychopath during this long and complicated 'rescue,' she couldn't. When she really thought about it, he hadn't actually harmed her; he'd been rough and mean, but he'd given her as much water and food as he had, made sure she was sheltered, and killed the walkers in the tunnels. If he hadn't found her, she might've died all alone in that field, bleeding out from the wound I her leg, dehydrated, hypothermic – eaten alive.

No. She couldn't hate him. She could disagree with his actions, his choices, his fear of facing his own demons, but she couldn't hate him for those things. After all, those things were alive inside the man she loved – Daryl had come a long way, but in the beginning he'd struggled with wrong and right, unable to form connections with others because he could only push them away.

"There, see," he stopped at the edge of a hill, helping her up rocks and pointing into the distance. She squinted, able to see the outline of the prison through the mist. She smiled like an idiot as soon as the idea of being home struck her. But she also felt anxious. She knew everyone would be happy for her return, thankful that she was alive – now that her mind was clear, she knew how many close friends would be devastated by her death – but she didn't know how Daryl would act. He was a mystery. His reactions tended to be backwards, and she was still sensitive to what he thought, unable to completely escape the hormones that were raging in her body.

Marcus glanced over, noticed the shadow in her expression, and said, "Or we could just stay out here another night and drink pond water."

She snorted and began down the hill, followed closely by her weary 'rescuer.' While they walked, traversing knee-deep waters that had formed as the river overflowed, Carol thought of what she'd say to the others, how she'd justify the stupid thing she'd done. She had a few good excuses – looking for berries, had to use the bathroom, wanted to see what it felt like to get struck by lightning – but nothing added up in her head. She had to come clean. She knew as soon as she told them that she'd been trying to die, she would tear up and start sobbing, so she kept it out of her head. She didn't want to cry before she got there. She didn't want to cry at all.

They came to the gate in good time. Carol didn't feel tired, too amped up by the prospect of returning to her friends, but her body was aching. The wrapping on her leg was scraping against her jeans, having come undone after exposure to that disgusting water in the tunnels. The puppy in her arms was squirming and fussy. Marcus suggested, since it was still daylight, that they should walk around to the front gate and avoid entering the broken part of the prison, just as a safety precaution. She agreed immediately and the journey continued.

XxX

They were noticed before they could get all the way to the front gate. Carl had been walking with Hershel across the courtyard, a little white dog darting around them in wide circles, and he saw them almost as soon as they left the cover of the forest. His face lit up and he sprinted to the fence, crashing into it, holding on with his hands, and pressing his face into the metal.

"Carol! We thought you were dead! You're hurt!" He twisted, "Hershel! Hershel! She's hurt!" His voice made her feel better, it made her walk faster, it made the dog in her arms squirm excitedly in her grip. Carl made it through both gates before they could get to the first one, and he ran over to Carol and wrapped both arms around her, walking and hugging at the same time. They met Hershel just inside; he glanced over her wounds, the most severe being the puncture to her shin, while Carl locked up and ran ahead to inform the others.

Hershel walked at her side, a serious look on his face. "We were so worried about you. We thought we might have to put up another empty grave."

Tears were already forming in her eyes. "I still have eight lives left."

Rick appeared first, followed by Glenn, Maggie, and Tyreese. She let the puppy down and walked into Rick's arms, embracing him like she had when she'd been lost in the prison so many months ago. As soon as she felt strength in someone else, her legs became weak and she realized how strenuous their journey through the woods had been; she dipped a little and Rick responded by lifting her up and carrying her toward the door, followed by an entourage of smiling faces.

She was set carefully on one of Hershel's hospital mats – which had been moved to the small room beside the storage room – and the area was cleared. Rick stayed by the door. Hershel helped her out of her clothes and she washed layer after layer of muck from her skin, seeing hand-shaped bruises on her upper arms for the first time. She assured Rick that Marcus had grabbed her to save her from a walker, though he seemed to see through her lie.

"I'm surprised you made it this long with a wound like this," Hershel commented on her leg, stretching it out to wash the dirt from the pink-and-red puncture. He spent a while examining it before he cut out Marcus' stitches and closed it once more, applying several antibiotics and then wrapping it in white bandages. He cleaned the scraps and cuts on her head, knees, and elbows, and then gave her some medicine to fight the viruses that had no doubt found a way into her system.

She ended up in her own pajamas, clean and warm for the first time in four days.

"Daryl should be back at sundown – he's out looking for you." Rick left the room, going to interrogate Marcus about his crappy rescue mission. She worried for a moment that he'd hurt the other man, but then that thought became comforting. It was about time somebody jack-slapped him for being an asshole.

Hershel went with her to the stairs, talking all the while about how worried he'd been, and how amazing it was that she'd survived in the bitter cold of these early winter weeks. He told her he'd be keeping a close eye on her and the baby, which comforted her, and he made sure she knew he was there if she needed to talk to someone. She thanked him, but told him she had come to terms with what she was facing. She wanted this baby now; she'd worked too hard to live just to give in now. She deserved this, even if Daryl still wanted to be a jerk about it.

She was relieved to finally make it to her cell, where she was visited by just about every member of the group. Carl had managed to catch the puppy in the yard and he brought it to her; the little thing immediately curled up against her side and waited as a guard, barking in its high-pitched voice whenever someone came in. She got to cuddle Cane for a few minutes, now understanding his silence – it was a product of confusion. He loved his father, but he didn't know how to interact with him, and being unable to communicate with his parent cut him off from everyone. Except Carol, because he looked at her like a mother. While he told her about the things he'd done in her absence, he often got excited and called her 'mommy,' not bothering to correct it. She didn't care. She liked to hear it. His brother came to get him, giving Carol a weary look before hugging her. Surprised and delighted by the hug, she was smiling as she watched them go.

She was brought up on the gossip, and Tyreese came to let her see Maddie, who'd grown a lot in the time she'd been away. Maggie came by to cry with her and, once their faces were dry, they talked about baby names. They settled on 'anything but Merle.' Dave brought her a hot meal of vegetables and sandwiches, which settled warmly in her belly, and apologized for anything his brother might've done. She even got a visit from the elusive Michonne, who brought her some stew – she didn't tell her what animal had gone into it, but Carol didn't particularly want to know. Louis and Eliza came by to show her the tricks they'd taught Carl's puppy, Hope, and then they were shuffled off by Rick, who came to announce that Daryl had returned.

She braced herself for the worst, but tried to expect the best. It felt like she was sitting on that bunk for an eternity her leg propped on a pillow to stop the throbbing, her hand resting nervously on her stomach, her eyes still burning for a good night's sleep. She heard him coming up the stairs two at a time, she heard him come jogging down the balcony, and then he stopped. She held her breath.

He walked inside, a sight for sore eyes indeed. He looked like he was trying to appear indifferent, his shoulders slung casually, his expression plain and bored, but when their eyes met they smiled at each other and that indifference faded away. He walked in, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at the ground, his smile vanishing in favor of a thoughtful frown.

She could tell he was at a loss, so she scooted over and put her hands on his shoulders, resting her face on his back. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking over those words. Hearing this, he turned and pulled her head into his chest, stroking her wet hair. She cried. The dog barked at Daryl. They both laughed at it.

"Can't you go anywhere without adopting something?" he wondered, reaching a hand out to the puppy and cuffing it on the head when it acted playfully. It lunged for him and rolled on its bag, barking excitedly. Carol leaned into Daryl's arms and watched him entertain their new pet.

They didn't talk about why she'd left, or what had happened while she was gone. He could see that asking would throw salt into her wound, that she wasn't ready to go there just yet. She was too happy to be with him again to recall why she'd ever wanted to leave. He spent the rest of the evening forcing her to hydrate, sending guests away, and getting the puppy so riled up that it peed on the floor. She laughed and smiled, imagining him down there wrestling with their child one day.

Night came and they ended up together on the bottom bunk, her head on his chest, her eyes on the candle flickering on the side table. The dog fell asleep in the tiny space between their legs. Daryl's hand ran up and down her shoulder, his lips sometimes pressing to her forehead, his nose nuzzling into her hair.

It was easy to feel tired, to feel safe, to feel that everything was going to work out, but Carol didn't fall to that temptation. She knew women who delivered in this prison had grim outlooks, and she knew her own medical limitations. She was back with Daryl, under his protection, safe in his strong hold, but she'd only completed the first mile of a long, dangerous marathon.


	21. Unhinged

**Hey guys! Since this is chapter twenty-one, I thought I'd add some alcohol to the most unpredictable member of the group, Marcus. Is he a happy drunk? A sad drunk? A chainsaw massacre drunk? He could be one or two, but I thought I'd make him a little bit of everything. He's a rainbow-drunk, sporting every possible outcome of that disgusting, yet strangely appealing, line of beverages. Too bad I can't get Carol drunk. Now that would make my day.**

**Also, hooray, I just watched the first episode of the fourth season of the Walking Dead. Holy crap it was good. If you haven't seen it yet, I advise you to watch it as soon as possible.**

**Buckle up kids – it's about to get bumpy.**

**XxX**

Four weeks after being 'rescued' by Marcus, having recovered from the vicious wound in her leg and the mild hypothermia in her toes, Carol sat in the dining room, sorting bloodstained clothes and humming softly to herself. It had also been twenty-eight days since anything eventful had happened in the prison, save the everyday miracle of being alive; it gave her enough peace to let her mind wander far from the task at hand. The massive grassy area in front of the prison was a construction site that day, home to a series of pigpens and chicken yards that would allow them to breed the animals Daryl and Carl brought home from all over Georgia. She wondered if they'd started yet, how it would look, and if they were planning on using the pickets they'd made, or the soft mesh-wire gathered from local farms. She also took time to worry about Maggie and Glenn, who were pushing deeper and deeper into the interior of the prison to clear more rooms for the survivors to inhabit; so far they'd claimed a library, the cafeteria, the armory, the boiler room, and the infirmary. Today they were going to navigate to the back and try to straighten the heavily-bent fence that kept allowing walkers into the lower levels. They were both wearing full body armor, including helmets with heavy visors, but she still prayed for their safety.

She was so consumed by these thoughts that she didn't notice Marcus until he was sitting beside her, his legs spread casually across the floor, his head set arrogantly to one side, a smirk on his lips. His eyes were foggy and he looked rough, like he'd been holed away all day with a shot glass. She glanced at him, smiled slightly, and went on with her work. If it had been anyone else, they would've run for a crowd, or a guard, and sought sanctuary; she was the only one in the prison who didn't fear him, who tolerated his attitude and had actually grown fond of his company. He had found a nicer side of himself now that he'd told her about his wife. It was her trust in him that allowed her to see a quirk in his behavior; something was wrong. He was unhinged.

When she was done folding a rather complicated army jacket, torn in the line of duty, Marcus stopped her by sliding the basket to the other side of the table. She gave him a harassed look. He narrowed his eyes in a way she'd never seen before; she couldn't tell if he was thinking deeply, scowling, or trying to appear harmless. "I need your help."

"With what?"

He looked around to make sure no one was listening, even though they'd been alone all this time, and then he leaned closer and lowered his voice. She smelled liquor heavy on his breath, and his words slurred in every direction. "Not here. It's not safe."

"Of course it's safe," she responded in a gentle, motherly way, using the same words she'd used on children who had nightmares. She saw him as a child sometimes.

Not even hearing what she'd said, he grabbed her arm and led her into the cell block, yanking her into his cell and immediately sitting down on his bunk. She quelled her immediate desire to leave, waiting by the door with her arms crossed over her chest – both elbows always rested on her stomach, reminding her that when she was in danger, the same was true for her baby. But she felt crippling empathy for this man, and no matter how he behaved, she addressed him with patience, using a quiet, tender voice. "What's wrong with you, Marcus?"

He sighed and buried his head in his hands, sitting straight up a moment later and staring at her with an expression somewhere between confusion and frustration. His eyes were dark and watery. He reached beneath his bunk and pulled out a half-full bottle of clear liquid, which he drank like water – she could smell the alcohol from where she stood. He drank it down to a quarter and then gasped, setting it on the table.

He stood, unbuttoned his pants, and threw them down to his ankles. Struck again with the desire to leave, Carol turned for the door, only to be stopped by his hand. He's wobbled across the room, almost falling, and now he held her desperately in that spot, tears dripping down his cheeks.

"No, no, stop, it's not like that, look," he turned her around and bore his right leg, twisting it to reveal a long, jagged cut. She drew in a surprised breath. He snorted and went for his bottle. He almost seemed confident, but then he took another sip and started sobbing, "I screwed up. I really screwed up. I-I-I-I got no family. Owen… my son can't even stand me. I'm the devil to him. And you know why?" he moved his hand violently and the liquid sloshed to the floor. His eyes were dilated, his face full of the type of devastation that had become too common in the world. "I tried to save him, that's why," he set the bottle down, stared at it, and then hugged it like it was his child, still sobbing, "I tried to save my baby, my little boy, 'cause I knew she was gonna _kill_ him." As the word 'kill' left his mouth, he threw the bottle down. It shattered on the concrete, pieces of glass skittering in every direction, sticking to Carol's socks, filling the room with the smell of liquor. Her heart jumped into her throat.

She went to him when the words stopped, when he was only sobbing and staring down at the mess he'd made. She pulled him up by his arm and led him around the broken glass, helping him to the storage room and then turning sharply into Hershel's makeshift hospital. Seeing that the long, rectangular room was already occupied by Ms. McLeod, Carol hastened to pull Marcus' pants up to his waste. The old woman looked away, yelping something about the indecency of it all.

Hershel arrived a moment later and, seeing that he had a new patient, he gave Ms. McLeod some aspirin and sent her on her way. He addressed Carol, seeing that Marcus was currently off his rocker, "What's going on? Are you hurt? Is something wrong with the baby?"

"No, it's him," she helped Marcus to sit on one of the cots and yanked his pants away, rolling her eyes when he made a purring noise in his throat. He grinned dopily and fell sideways. It took her a moment to get him upright again so that Hershel could see the damage. "I don't know how he got it, but it looks pretty nasty."

Setting his crutches down and taking a seat beside his patient, as he often did because he lacked the ability to crouch, Hershel directed her to the shelves all around this square room, requesting bandages, antibiotics, antifungals, a heavily concentrated hydrogen peroxide solution, and his suture kit. She sat with difficulty on Marcus' other side, holding him upright while Hershel worked. Marcus alternated between using her belly as an armrest and patting Hershel on the head, telling him what a good boy he was and calling him Bowser.

"Looks like he struck a sharp piece of metal a few days ago. Here, hold this still. Just like that. He's lucky you brought him to me; otherwise this infection could've gone septic, and that's a different ballgame. I'll be able to mend his leg, but whatever drove him to drink himself silly… that's something I don't have any medication for."

She said nothing about Marcus' confession, yet she knew that keeping this information to herself meant she was wholly responsible for helping him heal. She hoped the real Marcus wasn't such an ass. If she told anyone, she was afraid they wouldn't understand it, that they'd condemn him as a killer – a killer before the walkers even appeared – and force him to leave the prison. She couldn't let Owen and Cane lose their father, and she couldn't let Dave lose his brother. She had to fix him, or risk a devastating failure.

Hershel spent half an hour carefully sewing the wound, dousing it with disinfectants, and cutting out dead flesh. He talked while he worked, asking her about the others and thinking aloud about the weather. She knew that this room was only a small part of his time at the prison – he often walked the perimeter with Rick, talking about farming, and he liked to sit on the side wall with Judith, watching the horizon while the baby slept. When Marcus' leg was repaired, Carol and Hershel struggled to get upright, laughing when they realized they both looked pretty ridiculous. The patient slumped sideways and curled up in the blankets, drooling.

She was unwilling to leave him in this troubled state, and she expressed that to Hershel, who invited her to sit with him on the other side of the room. Glenn had installed a tall wooden table and a few stools; they sat across from each other and talked for a while. He could read the empathy in her eyes, and he understood her take on this situation, and though curiosity seemed to burn in him, he didn't ask her to explain her connection to a man who enjoyed picking on her.

"How are things with Daryl?"

"He's not here, is her?" she asked in a rough, sarcastic way. Realizing she sounded rude, she sat up, took a breath, and looked away. "Sorry. I just… I can't stop myself. It's like every time I'm around him I just want to slap him, and when he leaves, like he should, I'm just so mad at him. Don't get me wrong, he's an ass when he feels like it, but he's not _that_ bad. He doesn't deserve how much I snap at him."

"That's pregnancy for you." He reached out and held her hands in his, smiling. "When Annette was pregnant, she threw a hammer at me because the store was closed and I couldn't find any orange juice for her."

Daryl arrived before she could respond, returning from a supplies run and stopping by to check on her before he went off to do whatever it was he did all day. Since she'd gotten back, he'd been spending less time in the prison, joining Michonne on her long trips to hunt down the Governor, or hiking several miles into the wild to hunt boar. She couldn't complain, knowing that the farm animals who kept appearing within their gates were his doing, but it seemed that he was avoiding her, becoming aloof so he didn't have to deal with the trials of her pregnancy. Being alone most of the time she'd worked up an attitude when it came to him, never letting him have the last word, being difficult because she felt like it. That attitude came over her now, and she read much more on his face than she should have.

He stepped inside, gave her his typical irritated hello, and then leaned against the doorframe and heaved an exhausted sigh, waiting for an explanation. He hadn't even looked in that direction, but he knew who was lying on the cot with his pants missing, drooling on a pillow, snoring a little, muttering about pigeons.

Hershel cleared his throat, taking control of the semi-hostile situation between lovers. "There was an accident – Marcus had to get stitches, and Carol was kind enough to help me. W-without my leg, I can't hardly get to the things I need." And then he masterfully changed the subject. "You weren't gone very long. Did something happen?"

Daryl shook his head and looked at Carol, jerking his thumb toward the cell block. "Come on."

She hauled herself out of the chair, unsteady on wet socks, and almost slipped on a blanket from one of the other mattresses. Daryl caught her by her elbow and directed her outside, sighing impatiently when she hung in the doorway and smiled at Hershel. "Call me if you need anything."

"I will, and you take care now. Come and see me tomorrow and we'll start you on your fourth month of vitamins. Shouldn't be as bitter as the last."

"Good," she responded shortly. She glanced at Daryl, satisfied that he was annoyed, and walked outside with him, finding that the entire cell block had filled while she was with Marcus. He led her to the dining room and parked her at one of the tables, filling two bowls and taking the seat beside her. Not a man of many words or public displays of affection, he went right to eating, ignoring the goofy way some of the women smiled at them. Carol spoke out of the side of her mouth, "They're staring at us again."

He looked up, met each set of eyes, and snorted. He said nothing.

She went on eating, a bit miffed by his silenced – she found a way to be angry at everything these days, perhaps a product of a pregnancy, or the result of being left alone long enough to realize how much her situation sucked. Every day it was harder to lift things, harder to walk up the stairs, harder to carry a clothes basket without holding it two feet out in front of her. She rammed her belly into doorways, rolled it into the wall, and she couldn't even sit at this table without turning sideways to accommodate four months of gestation. He got the easy end – going out, enjoying himself with his new comrades, entertaining Carl, sleeping on his stomach – and she was stuck with all the hard work. It didn't seem fair at all.

She worked herself up on that idea until she couldn't stand to sit beside him anymore, taking her bowl and accompanying Beth, who was fawning over Jackson. She smiled happily at seeing Carol and gave her a brief hug, grinning down at her stomach. "I can't wait! Have you thought of what you're gonna name it yet?"

"No, not really," Carol murmured, looking everywhere but at the dark set of eyes watching her from across the room. Eventually he got up and came to her side, crouching, waiting patiently for her to say something. She looked at the table. "I wanted to see Beth."

He shrugged, set his bowl down, and sat beside her.

She almost smiled, amused by his persistence, and then she went on talking to the teenager on her other side. She leaned her head on Daryl's shoulder, resting her neck, and before he went to put his bowl in the dirty pile by the sink, he kissed her on the cheek. Beth had her lips pressed together, her eyes bright. "You two… are so cute."

Carol laughed. "He's only cute when he feels like it."


	22. I Dream of Gunshots

Daryl lay awake in bed, grateful for the first time that he'd gone through an entire day of labor to bring full-sized, memory-foam mattresses back to the prison. It was like his entire body was slowly sinking toward the ground, his aching muscles melting into the material, the dog he'd become quite fond of almost disappearing as she sank next to him. But no amount of comfort could put him to sleep that night, his mind was too wired, his anxiety about the coming days too overpowering. He'd just come back a few hours ago, sliding gratefully out of the passenger's seat of a four-door pick-up, helping the others carry furniture and lumber to a sheltered part of the yard, and, no matter how much he hated being confined with over thirty sets of admiring eyes, no matter how annoying it was to be greeted every time he freaking stepped through a doorway, he preferred it to facing the outside world again. At least for the next few hours. He would lie here, try to sleep and fail miserably, cuddle up to Carol whenever she got there, and then pass out from exhaustion when the moon was already falling, awakened by the shrill cries of Judith as she told everyone what time it was, and how they should be rushing to get her a bottle. He knew that it would happen that way, and he still hoped to be dreaming already. It was a habit.

His bedmate came in after dark, having just finished story time with the kids. He could hear her reading from her favorite book: Spirit Bear. She stood in the doorway a moment, smiling softly at him, and then she shut the door and got changed for the night. He stared at the ceiling – they'd removed the top bunk to give themselves more space – and tried not to think about the only thing on his mind. Michonne. Carol sat beside him, understanding of his heavy thoughts, and rested her elbow on his bare chest, pressing her palm to his cheek. He reached up and touched her shoulder, meeting her eyes with his lips pressed tightly. "You still mad at me?" It seemed that she was always angry these days, always pushing him away for reasons he didn't understand, but he was pleased to find that her eyes were gentle and intimate.

Shaking her head, she drew away and lay beside him, sighing and staring at the wall. "I can't believe you're going out again so soon. You just got here."

He turned on his side and, as he often did when he was thinking and carrying on a conversation at the same time, he rested his forehead to her shoulder and ran two fingers over her stomach, watching her breathe. "I could stay."

"Michonne needs backup. She's always going out by herself. I just… I wish I could go with you." She stopped his hand, and when he laid it flat on her belly, she wrapped hers over it, her thumb running up and down his wrist. He tilted his head up and kissed her shoulder, glancing up to meet her half-narrowed eyes, smiling slightly. She hummed deep in her throat. "But as big as I'm getting, we wouldn't fit on the same horse."

He snorted. "I'm glad somebody said it."

She laughed and punched his shoulder, "Watch it. You still have to come back." She was quiet for a moment, making him wonder what was going through her mind, but then the smile returned to her face and she looked at him with an expression that quite literally stole his heart. She'd never been able to do that before she was pregnant. "I'm sorry I'm so mean."

"I can take it," he murmured, having thought of what he'd say to those words more than once. It was something she said at night, when they were close, when not even clothes rested between them. She was always apologizing, and then she'd find a way to be cold, to make him frustrated, and to make him wish he could pinch her or something without feeling guilty. He had learned to bear the abuse to get to these moments, to see her drop her guard and give him that sweet smile, a smile so perfect it made the rest of the world disappear.

She wrinkled her nose and leaned her head into his, sighing. "If you find a horse, it's mine."

"I'll be damned if I'm letting you on a horse."

"Not _your_ horse, it'd throw me off, but a nice horse."

"There's no such thing."

She fell silent. He thought about his horse, aware that her statement was true. Of all the horses in Georgia he could've found that day, it had to be the meanest son of a bitch ever born and broken. His name was Demon, and he had soot-black fur to match, and blazing black eyes full of a lust for the outdoors and the open trails. He was a perfect match for Daryl, who was confident enough to take control whenever he felt like misbehaving, but he was a dangerous animal when it came to other riders; so far, no one could approach him but Daryl, and even he had to do a few laps around the yard before he caught the bastard on his bad days. It had long been his wish to find a third horse to put in their makeshift pasture with Demon and Flame, Michonne's impressive rust-colored stallion. He wanted one that Carl could ride so he could take the kid with him on runs, using a machine that ran on grass and never got a flat tire. He hadn't considered getting Carol a horse yet, perhaps because she was in a delicate state – now the idea intrigued him.

In the darkness, which fell heavily as his mind filled with ideas, Daryl wrapped his arm around her and pulled her into his chest, sighing contently. Sugar, the protective Doberman who went on runs with him nearly every day, crawled over and curled up behind his head. He drew Carol's face up, kissed her gently on the lips, and murmured, "What would you do if I brought you a mule?"

"Make you wish you hadn't come back."

"Thought so."

XxX

Daryl was outside before dawn, his entire body trembling from the intense cold. Each breath was like fire shooting down his throat, filling up his lungs. His horse felt the same way – he was too cold to act like an asshole and flee when Daryl tried to grab him. He bucked his head away and then gave in, even showing a little affection by nuzzling into the side of Daryl's neck. It was a good omen for the day. He cleaned out Demon's hooves, brushed the gunk from his fur, laid a blanket across his back, and then strapped the saddle into place. He filled the trough with grass cut from the fields outside, mixed with hay being grown in the corner of the field, and some oats Daryl and Michonne had managed to scavenge from a variety of sources. They were low on oats, though, so he had to use them sparingly. He added a few tablespoons of table salt to the mixture and checked that it was light and springy, free of heavy molds, and mostly pure, meaning it lacked insects, random seeds and stems, and twigs. Demon appreciated his pickiness.

Michonne came out not long after him, going through the same process with her horse and nodding in appreciation when she realized Daryl had also prepared a meal for Flame. They chatted while the horses ate, wondering aloud about the weather and the possibility of locating some chickens or boar piglets – Daryl thought they were more likely to find young boar, because they were born with the same camouflage as deer, and therefore much more likely to survive than the simple-minded birds, but he hoped for both. When they were done eating, they gave the horses time to digest and then took them for a trot around the yard, running them side-by-side. Once they were loose and eager to get moving, Daryl ran inside, enlisted Owen to open and close the gate, and then came back out and hopped into his saddle.

When they were finally moving through the forest, navigating a few patches of thick undergrowth to gain access to the open fields north of the prison, Daryl let himself become enthusiastic about this outing. It was necessary. They had ten hens and no rooster, leading to good egg production, but no chicks. Michonne had a few good leads and she was impatient to leave again, having spent several weeks cooped up in the prison with a torn muscle. He was her wingman when it came to taking the horses out for a little old fashioned wrangling.

"Did you tell Carol?"

He glanced over and shook his head, allowing Demon to slow into a walk. She did the same with Flame, watching him critically. "No, I couldn't… not yet."

"It was your responsibility."

"I'll tell her when we get back. Relax."

"If you don't, I will."

"I said I'll tell her," he snapped, glaring at her. She stared back at him coolly, her eyebrows raised, and then she looked frontward. He sighed. "We're two crazy bastards, you know that?"

"You keep reminding me."

XxX

Carol strolled through the gardens with Cane, greeting whoever she came across, keeping an eye on the construction project going on across the yard. She'd woken up that morning alone, finding that both horses were gone and the pasture had been left open; there was a rust-colored bloodhound patrolling that area, searching for signs of vermin. His name was Red, and aside from being the quietest hound in Georgia, he was also afraid of the indoors. If you wanted to see him, you had to come out and do your best to locate him. Cane thought it was the best thing in the world.

She was joined by Marcus when she reached the gate. He had recovered from his drunken episode the day before, finding a bit of peace in that muddled mind of his; it showed when he lifted Cane up and held him in one arm, kissing him until he giggled and squealed. Carol smiled at him, glad for his progress, and motioned to his leg. "How are you feeling?"

His mood seemed to dim a bit, but he still smiled. It was a bit reserved. "Better, thanks to you. I'm sorry if I… did something stupid. I can't remember what the hell happened. Hershel told me you brought me in and stayed with me for a while."

She nodded. "Just so you know, you're a giggly drunk."

He laughed, reaching down to scoop up a small winter flower that his son showed interest in. He stopped to hand it over carefully, licking his lips. "Yeah… sorry."

They walked in silence for a while, crossing the front gate and the main road, and continuing until they came to the right-hand side of the yard. Closer to the prison, the temporary chicken houses were alive with activity, and the children, who'd formed quite a group in the recent weeks, were playing an intense game of soccer. Marcus offered to let Cane go and play, but he wasn't interested. He hugged tight to his father's shoulder and watched the kids with wide, curious eyes.

"Cane and Owen are living in my cell now," Marcus said, stooping again to pick another flower for the little boy in his arms. He handed it to him and shrugged, "I don't know if I'm dreamin', but it's like… it's like Owen knows somehow… it's like he _knows_."

"Maybe he feels how you've changed."

He snorted. "I ain't no different than before I went and got you. Jesus."

"Like it or not, you're getting better."

"Blasphemy."

She smiled, reaching to take the flower when Cane offered it. She twirled it between her fingers. "You know, you should make up with Daryl, and try to get in better with Rick. Right now you're like a stranger to everyone. If you got to know some people-"

"Stop." He put an arm in front of her, stopping her in her tracks. Her heart hammered at the sudden seriousness in his tone, the drastic pull of his face. She traced his eyes to the forest, where she saw nothing but leaves for several critical seconds. And then she saw what he'd seen.

A man stood there, blood caked on his face, a little girl no older than Cane in his arms, his wide, scared eyes centered on Carol and Marcus, his hand holding a pistol which trembled in his grip. He had it pointed right at Carol. She swallowed. Cane kept asking what was going on. Walkers who'd been meandering along the fence began to move toward him, catching his scent. She saw his eyes dilate, his hand shake involuntarily due to the cold – slicked with blood, the gun almost came out of his grip completely. He flexed to hold onto it.

The gun went off.

She felt heat in her shoulder.

Without even a hint of pain, the entire world went black, and the sound of the gunshot followed her into her dreams.


	23. Three Days of Darkness

Daryl crept through a silent hallway, his crossbow aimed frontward, trembling in his hands, his eyes scanning every room that he passed, his bloodstream alive with the type of terror that makes good men lose their minds. He met the end of the hallway within ten steps, turning first to the right, breathing heavily with the expectation of being attacked, and then he twisted to the left, aware of the larger space despite the darkness that found its way in. He was listening, always listening, always aware of the groaning from outside. Blood dripped from his cheek and struck his arm, startling him. He stood still for a moment to let his heart settle, and then he took a few steps into the blackness, hanging to the right wall, his finger tapping the trigger with expectation.

He heard something coming from the far corner. He couldn't tell if it was the moaning of a dead thing, or the person he was looking for. "_Michonne_," he hissed, pressing himself to the wall and staring into the shadows. He heard a short, blunt whistle and relief bubbled through him. He listened to her moving toward him, and then she touched his shoulder.

"Come on. I think I found a way out." She turned, guiding him across the room by his wrist, and then she placed his hand on a cold piece of metal. He explored it, finding that it was bolted to the wall; a door of some kind, short and hidden. "Garbage shoot," she explained in a sharp whisper. "Might get us out of this hell-hole."

He felt for the handle, securing one hand against the metal before he pulled. It made a horrible noise that echoed through the empty hallways. They both cringed. He tugged harder, this time opening it a crack; the metal ground and squealed, rusted from inactivity. Michonne went in first, breathing heavily, her hands roving around, and Daryl waited with one foot inside, expecting the herd that was chasing them to come through the far door any second. Just when he began to hear their feet dragging over the tiles, Michonne tugged on his jacket and he slipped inside, slamming the door shut before any of the walkers could approach. They remained crouched on the other side for a while, listening, trying to get their eyes to adjust to this underground maze, but it was a fruitless effort. At least he couldn't hear walkers in this place, and the air made it feel like it was larger, perhaps open to the sky.

Hunched over, their hands on their weapons, they stalked across the open floor, leaving the safety of the wall in favor of the smell of freedom. Daryl could already hear the wind blowing. At two hundred feet they struck a barrier – Daryl pressed his hands to it and determined it was a large metal object, smooth and circular, but too massive to identify with any certainty. When they walked around it, everything became clear.

It was an airplane hangar with one wall destroyed. Moonlight poured onto the metal object he'd been trying to identify; it was a sky liner, painted navy blue, issued and operated by the U.S. military. He stood staring at it for a moment, amazed by its size and structure, but he was soon jerked toward the moonlit field by Michonne. They climbed the rubble and jogged into the forest, turning to look at the place they'd left. Breathing a sigh of relief, they both chuckled.

"Holy shit," Daryl gasped, struck for the first time by his proximity to death. He leaned over his knees to breathe easily, and then he fell backwards, enjoying the feeling of the grass on his skin. He counted three days since they'd stepped into Satan's bunker, but it felt like a lifetime since he'd felt the wind on his face.

Michonne sat beside him, staring at the only part of the structure that existed above ground. She shook her head, her eyes narrowed. "Why build a hangar plain sight, and hide the rest of the base under half a mile of earth?"

"Whatever it was for, it's useless now," Daryl commented, sitting up and twiddling a piece of grass between his thumbs. He felt the same curiosity she did. "Hershel's gonna flip when he sees all this stuff. And check it out," he pulled a small magnet from his pocket, which read, "I'm on Hawaiian time." She smiled and they both laughed and fell back into the grass.

"I actually want to go back. I can't believe it."

"It's not so bad," he murmured, staring at the star-studded sky and wondering if anyone back at the prison could see it so brightly. He doubted it. "Once we catch them chickens we passed on the way here, we should be able to head back."

"I wonder where the horses went."

He shrugged. "Probably hit Vegas."

She was silent for a while. They got up, stretched, and started hiking to their point of entry, which was at least six miles due west. They'd left the horses there, but Daryl doubted two massive animals could go unnoticed by the local walkers for three days; they would've gone somewhere safer, leaving their riders to walk home. He didn't mind it, but it would take much longer, and that time would be extended when they ran out of food.

Michonne perked up when they found Demon and Flame wandering along the river about two hundred yards south of where they'd been left. As she was climbing into her saddle, she said, "I'm grateful that you came with me. I almost thought you wouldn't."

"I missed the open road," Daryl admitted. "Before we joined the group, me and Merle rode our neighbor's horses; two beautiful Spanish mustangs. It beats being cooped up in a car all day."

"I thought you'd want to stay with Carol."

He leaned back in the saddle and yawned, the night beginning to take its toll on his consciousness. He hadn't rested for four days, before they'd entered that God-forsaken bunker, and when she mentioned Carol, he could only think of how comfortable his bed would've been at that moment. Michonne yawned too. They glanced at each other uneasily and kicked the trot into a gallop, silently agreeing to cover more ground before they gave up and called it a night. Daryl was so tired he swayed back and forth in his saddle, almost falling off a few times. He caught himself when the horse neighed and jerked in the same direction, aware of his weakness.

They set up camp along Old Man's River. He was pleased to find the water in its lowest cycle, ideal for catching fat toads who were trying to hibernate in the mud. He also hooked a rock fish on its way downstream. While he cooked, Michonne repeated her words from earlier, and he realized that he hadn't answered her.

"She doesn't sit around all day waiting for me to come home; she does stuff." He fed a few twigs to a lower section of the fire, watching it flare up and touch the fish's tail. Michonne watched him intently through the flames. He looked up, his eyes narrowed. "What?"

"I'm just trying to picture you with a kid of your own."

He looked away, uncomfortable with the idea, and went on with his cooking. He hadn't thought much on what it would be like to have a child, but sometimes he dreamt of a little boy with big blue eyes. He also thought of his dad, whose brutal beatings had shaped his earliest opinions on fatherhood. He felt that his father's anger ran in his blood. It was why Merle acted the way he did, why Daryl couldn't control his temper sometimes. If he became that man, if he hurt Carol or the baby, he didn't know how he would live with himself.

Seeing that her simple observations had plunged him into deeper thought, Michonne dropped the topic and moved on to something easier to swallow. "Are you sure about that horse?"

"Did you even have your eyes open?" he demanded, returning to the passion that had driven them to argue early in the trip. "That was a Missouri fox trotter, purebred, in peak physical condition. They took those horses into the _Grand Canyon_. We have to get it. We can't just let it stay there."

"Are you gonna carry it back?"

"I was gonna… tie it to Flame."

"Oh no, no way, I'm not leading a feral horse."

"Please?"

"That wasn't even a little convincing. What do I get out of it?"

"Anything. Come on. Demon can't lead a horse; he can barely walk straight as it is."

She thought a moment, and then smiled wickedly. "Here's the deal, Daryl. I get that horse back to the prison for you, and you owe me a favor that I can claim any time I want."

"Deal."

"Let's go then."

XxX

Carol sat up on her bunk, watching Hershel re-wrap the wound in her shoulder for the third time that day. It kept bleeding through the bandages, and the sight of blood scared everyone. The man who'd shot her was standing in the doorway, watching Hershel with wide eyes, apologizing again and again for his mistake. Tyreese was on the other side of the door, watching the man's every move, waiting for something to change in his submissive demeanor.

When she was wrapped again, Carol stood and put her hands on the young man's shoulders, stopping him from going into his third apology. "It's fine. It's just a flesh wound."

"B-b-but I _shot_ you." He reached down to pick up his daughter, who had returned to his side after a brief game with the other kids.

She held her arms out, "I'm fine, see?"

"B-but that guy, Marcus, he said I won't get to stay here. Please don't send us out. I can't go back to that. It was hell. I can't let my daughter go through that again."

"What did you say your name was?"

He took a deep breath. "Asante."

"And your daughter?"

"Efia."

She looked between them, smiling gently. She could remember vividly the first time she'd seen them after being shot, the way he looked at her, so scared, so young. He looked the same now. She could tell that he had been through something horrible, and she knew that keeping a young child alive was nearly impossible – she knew that all too well. As always, she empathized, and she couldn't be angry with him for being the cause of her pain.

"Asante, Efia," she said, placing her hand gently on the girl's thin arm. "You're not going anywhere. I won't let Rick or anybody else throw you out."

She sent him away, gasping to let out a few minutes of bottled pain. Hershel led her to her mattress and helped her sit down, motioning for Tyreese to come inside. "I want you to watch over that man and his daughter."

Tyreese nodded respectfully and left them alone.

"If that bullet had been a few inches closer to your heart-"

"I know, Hershel. Just… don't tell Daryl."

"I won't, but you should."

"I have the feeling he's keeping something from me anyway. Something I should know." She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, shutting her eyes and taking a deep, painful breath. "What's one more secret between us?"

"Take care of yourself."

"Yeah… you too."


	24. Glass

**I just want to say that I won't be killing any of the main characters (not yet, anyway. Maybe. If I'm in a good mood when I write the chapters) and you don't have to worry about losing the relationship between Daryl and Carol. Here's my psychological break-down of the situation, if you're interested. Trust me, I wrote them this way for a reason.**

**Daryl is a man who is not used to affection – sure, he had a brother, he had a mother, but they were also cold-shoulder types, rejecting the weakness that came from loving others. His brother was his best example of having a good relationship, and we all know how screwed up that was. He doesn't know how to deal with the idea of losing someone so close to him, and therefore he is trying to get further away so that when he does lose her, as he believes he will, it won't destroy him. Of course, his logic sucks, but he refuses to see it. And Carol, she's a different element completely. She loves everyone with all her heart, but the relationship that she began as a teenager – her first love – became a hell that she couldn't escape, and then the only relief she'd ever experienced was taken away. Can you imagine what it's like to know that your daughter was alone and afraid in the woods for days? Bitten by one of those monsters? Curled up somewhere and dying of fever, crying for her mother but remaining utterly alone? Carol imagines it every day. It is the strongest thing on her mind now that she has a child on the way. But Carol is also strong – so, so strong – and stubborn, and willful, and brave. She is a survivor in every sense of the word. She's tired of being told what to do and how to think, especially now that she has something precious to defend.**

**They love each other, they're best friends, great companions, but their personalities make them clash at times. At the end of the day it's still companionship that holds them together, even if she slaps him, even if he storms out and keeps secrets. That's a great relationship for you, as great as it can get in the midst of the apocalypse.**

**I hope you can see it from my perspective, and I would love to hear your insights about their relationship – any opportunity to talk about Daryl and Carol is gladly accepted (fan girl squeal). But in all seriousness, I appreciate what the writers did with them – companionship above sex, above everything. That is what people seek in life. We desperately want to be understood, defended, and listened to. We want a hand to hold, someone to back us up, someone that makes our blood boil in every possible way.**

**And, now that I'm done pouring my soul out, here's the chapter I had to write before going to class. I'm gonna be exhausted, but it's worth it.**

**(Special Note: I use the word 'lucid' here as a medical term, meaning able to function, communicate, and think logically.)**

XxX

Carol sat alone in the long, rectangular room that had become her fourteen-hour hell. Her body was covered with sweat, dripping down her chin and across her chest, soaking her clothes, forcing her to feel a unique mixture of intense heat and cold. She had been lying down only moments ago but she couldn't remember sitting up; she only knew that she couldn't lay there any longer. She felt dizzy, disoriented, nauseas – the walls weren't spinning, but when her neck shifted, her head seemed to take a moment to follow, the muscles twitching unnaturally. Her vision was foggy, like she was squinting through a water droplet, and her hearing was muffled, as if she stood at the end of a long, narrow hallway, and someone kept banging on the wall. No, that was her head aching. The pain faded in and out, sometimes enough to make her scream, sometimes so distant that she had the notion to return to her cell.

Hershel kept her there. He went out a few times, returning with cold water, removing some of her clothing and trying to reduce the temperature of her skin. When she got too cold, he laid her down and covered her in blankets. She smiled at him whenever she realized her was there – drifting in and out of a dreamlike state, she was unable gauge time, and therefore the seconds would pass like hours, and the hours would glide by as seconds. She saw different faces: Rick, Marcus, Carl. They all looked concerned. They spoke, but she didn't hear them. Or she did, and she didn't understand what they were saying. It wasn't a foreign language, but one she'd known all her life; suddenly it became nothing more than noise.

She was lucid once at the fourteen-hour mark, that's the time she was aware of what was going on with her body, and Hershel told her that she had some type of infection, something that came from a contaminated bullet and was literally inserted into her bloodstream. He said the baby would be fine. He kept saying that, as if he was convincing himself. Daryl came back when her time was almost up, when she felt herself slipping from the medications Hershel had given her; his face was solemn, regretful, and afraid. She held his hand. She didn't know if she ever let go of it.

In the time between lucid episodes, she fell into dreams, or nightmares. She saw Sophia's life again, flashing before her like she was living it all over again, and she saw the little girl who looked like Daryl, who ran into her arms and giggled with the voice of an angel. She went on a journey through the woods and encountered a man with no face. There was something deeply symbolic about that, but her mind wouldn't grasp it. She had nightmares about Ed, about his drunken rants; she saw his eyes, blurred from alcohol, and his mind, dimmer than usual, fixating on her little girl, awakening in her the primal urge to wrap her arms around Sophia and never let her go. But she woke up, became lucid, and started sobbing, unable to remember the dream. She was in Daryl's arms; he kept saying he was sorry, that he wasn't going anywhere, and that he wouldn't leave her. She must've been begging him to stay, but for the life of her she couldn't control her own mouth.

"Shh," he whispered, his voice bouncing around in her head. She registered how sweet he sounded, how gently he kissed the side of her face, how he sat with her, holding her, trying his damndest to protect her from her own body. He wasn't angry, like she expected, and he didn't accuse her of being accident prone – he was just _there_. "Listen… It's gonna be alright, everything's gonna be fine… Hershel's got the antibiotics, you just gotta give it time… I know…" he responded to her sobbing, stroking her hair. She could see misery in his expression. "I know, sweetheart. I know it hurts." And then his voice wasn't addressing her. "Can't you stop the pain?"

She heard Hershel, but she was focused too heavily on Daryl to hear him. She closed her eyes to the blinding lights of the recovery room, turning her head sideways into the dirty, stained shirt worn by the man who anchored her to the ground. Her shoulder throbbed unbearably; she tried to reach for it, but he grabbed her wrist and directed it back to her side, "Leave it, you'll only make it worse. Just relax. Let it run its course."

"I can't," she moaned, feeling fresh tears pour down her face. She felt the room grow denser. Colorful dots erupted behind her eyes. She felt dizzy, and then nauseas. Before she knew it, she was leaning over the trash can again. Cold towels wiped her face, dimming the heat, bringing back the intense cold. She shivered. Daryl wrapped the blankets more tightly around her, his arm resting around her neck now, his head pressed against hers. His other hand still held her wrist, and, after a few moments, it moved in gentle circles over her skin.

Hours passed. Carol tried to remember what brought her here. She'd been standing in her cell, assuring Hershel that she would be fine without supervision, using the fact that the bullet wound was three days old to justify her perfect health. And then she'd tasted metal. Her vision had begun to cloud. Hershel said her face got as white as a sheet and he reached out to direct her to the mattress. After that, she'd woken up here. But where did Daryl come from? He was out. She was sure he'd left three days ago, not due back for another day at least; how did he know to come back to the prison? She couldn't figure it out. Thinking about it gave her a migraine.

She sat and listened to the others talk, sometimes fully conscious, other times napping on Daryl's shoulder, oblivious to the world around her. The sickness slowly passed with the careful application of antibiotics and strong antivirals, courtesy of Daryl's trip to a hidden military bunker. She became more lucid as the day wore on, able to recognize that people were coming and going, bringing her food, kissing her forehead. She was also aware of Daryl's newest adaptation – he became possessive, sending people away if they weren't members of the original group, or if they happened to be on his bad side. He would lean over her, kiss her cheek, and murmur in her ear, asking her whether or not she wanted to see them – if she said no, he would take on the role of bad cop and send them packing.

Rick came by a second time at four in the afternoon, letting her play with Judith until her shoulder started throbbing again. Daryl got up and spoke with him in the doorway for a while, taking on a serious tone, and the two of them hung their heads and thought about serious matters. She watched them, but had no interest in what they were saying. Hershel sat with her, helping her prop herself against the wall – now that Daryl had left, so had her life-sized pillow.

"You're a strong woman, I can give you that," Hershel said, smiling. He patted her knee, leaning his head back against the wall. He'd been with her all this time, leaving him exhausted, but still capable of a kind disposition. He wasn't so kind with the others in the group, but that was beyond Carol's concern.

She shrugged at his words, cursing her stupidity when that simple movement triggered a sharp pain in her shoulder. "I think I should live in a bubble. I can't seem to stay out of danger."

"Well, think of it like this. If you hadn't of been walking along the fence that day, you wouldn't have seen Asante and his daughter. They would be dead right now. You're the reason they're alive." He looked over at the men, blowing a breath through his nose. "It's not something that others readily understand."

"What's that?"

"Men don't like to think you can protect yourself – they see women and children as shards of glass just waiting to be shattered. It's not intentional; it's an instinct. We can't help it. But we should try and fight it more often." He wrapped his warm hand around hers, smiling again. "You're strong, Carol, stronger than most of the men in this prison. They all mean well, but don't let them tell you that surviving this, and getting lost in the forest, and losing your daughter, was just luck. God has big plans for you."

She took a long, deep breath, leaning her head on his shoulder. "I'm starting to think God needed a picture to put on his dartboard, and he chose mine."

"How could anyone choose to torment someone so kind without good reason?" he challenged, drawing her head up and looking seriously into her eyes. "You have been shaped through loss and trial; look at yourself. Do you think you would've survived this a year and a half ago? Would you have wanted to?"

She shook her head, realizing that, before all of this had happened, she could've cared less about staying alive. It was a cruel and damaging thought, but she would've left the world so readily, finally free of Ed and the shit she'd endured. Hershel was right. If she faced death now, she would fight for her life. She _had_ fought for her life, and she'd won.

He squeezed her hand, hauling himself up to make room for Daryl, who was coming back toward the cot. "If God wanted you dead, he would've done it a long time ago."

Daryl snorted at Hershel's words, taking on an involuntarily disrespectful tone. "Go thump your bible somewhere else, she's gonna be just _fine_, and God ain't got nothing to do with it." He sat next to her, looking between them. "It's medicine, not faith."

"Researchers had faith enough to believe some ailments could be cured."

"No, they weren't fool enough to think you could pray and solve everything. It's that kind of religious bullshit that made you so weak in the beginning – believing walkers were still people, like they were something your frigging Jesus cooked up. How 'bout you _grow up_ and stop telling everybody fairytales. And get rid of that damn book while you're at it."

Hershel smiled kindly, not the type to respond to words said out of fear and anxiety. Carol could tell he was lashing out, using the anger he felt to target someone who wouldn't readily fight back. He seemed to realize this after a moment, and the slow evolution of his relationship with the old man made him more apologetic than he would be with any other group member. He frowned, looked at the ground, and muttered, "Sorry."

"It's been a long day. How about you two go sleep in your own bed. The only thing to do now is heal." He limped to the medicine cabinet and tossed some ibuprofen onto the cot. "If the pain starts up again, take three. You can wake me up for any reason, okay?" He was looking right at Daryl, who nodded submissively in response. Hershel smiled at him. "Son, I love both of you, you're like my own children. No matter what you do, that love doesn't end. Now go get some rest."

Daryl and Carol walked together out of the hospital room, greeted by Rick, who was coming down the stairs with Judith in both arms. He stopped, asked how she was, and then gave her a strong hug, filling her with the warmth that always came from friendship. She got hugs from Beth, Carl, and Dave as well, and a tough-sounding 'Hope you feel better,' from Marcus and Owen. Cane came into the cell as soon as they arrived, crawling onto the bed and holding onto her for a while. Daryl shooed him away. He helped her lie down, checking her shoulder to make sure it wasn't bleeding through the bandages, and he had a long talk with Sugar about crawling all over them tonight. Carol was consumed by peace almost immediately

He lay beside her, one hand intertwined with hers. He was on the outside, still in his possessive mood, and she was tucked away on the inside, her shoulder to the wall, her back aching for finally lying on a soft surface. The dog lay between her legs, her head rested on Carol's thigh.

"You scared the shit out of me." He broke the silence with a soft, cautious statement. This was one of his 'I would never say this in public' moments, so vulnerable that when she looked over at him, she saw a much younger man looking back at her.

Her hand tightened around his. "I'm not going anywhere."

"I meant what I said."

"What?"

"I'm not leaving. Not again." He turned on his side and kissed her uninjured shoulder – the right one – glancing over to her left and cringing. She saw that regret and anxiety again, resurfacing each time he looked at her injury. She was so grateful for his words that she didn't have a response. He took a deep breath and laid his hand flat on her stomach, receiving a hardy kick from a ticked off baby. They smiled at each other in a familiar way. "I'm gonna stay and help around the prison. Chicken coop's almost done, and they're making a big shelter out front, for eating and hanging out. I think they're gonna fix the pasture up real nice. Maybe we can find some cattle."

She liked listening to him, even if half of what he said went in one ear and out the other. She just wanted to hear his voice, untainted by whatever was going on in her body. She just wanted to feel his hand pressed to her stomach, to know that he would be here, protecting her, remaining in the prison despite his hatred of confinement. He was doing it for her.

What was that feeling that kept coming to the surface? What was that willingness to be held, to be protected, to be guarded? She realized, after hours of lying in the dark with him, listening to him talk about farm animals and underground bunkers, that she was feeling her own worth in its most natural state. To be loved was to be valued. After Ed she could never feel it on her own. He gave it to her. Just by talking, by opening up his heart, his mind. He didn't do that with everyone. It made her feel that she was worth it, that the prospect of him being in love with her, of staying with him and raising a beautiful child, wasn't so farfetched after all.

That wonderful feeling showed when she stopped his talking with a kiss. He smiled through it, exposing his boyish side in that expression, and whispered, "What was that for?"

"Just… not leaving."

He hummed in acknowledgement of that fact, his eyes flickering over her face. He seemed to be considering something. "I got you a horse."

"You sure it's a horse and not a mule?"

"No, darlin', this is a _horse_. She's beautiful. As soon as I saw her I thought of you."

"Why's that?"

"She's pregnant, stubborn as an ox, and she knocked me on my ass twice."


	25. Merle

**Guys, stick with me here. I'm going to do something drastic. I had a thought the other day – how much does it suck that Merle will never be able to see his little niece or nephew? After some serious consideration, I've decided to tweak a very, very tiny part of the original storyline – the part where Daryl finds Merle as a walker and has to put him down. Instead, Daryl went looking for his brother and found only members of Woodbury and the walkers he'd put down. His brother had vanished again. Perhaps it's about time he finished wrestling his inner demons and wandered back to the prison, where he knows his brother is safe and sound – but how will he react to the new members, and how will his tone change when he finds out about the blood relative he'll soon have?**

**Also, the dynamic between the two of them is my favorite thing to write aside from Daryl interacting with Carol. I believe in Hershel's words at the prison that day.**

"**He may be erratic, but don't underestimate his loyalty to his brother."**

XxX

Maggie stepped through the cafeteria doors, her heart thrumming painfully in her ears. She held a long, serrated knife, dripping with coagulated blood, in her right hand, and her left rested on the hilt of her pistol; she counted four rounds in the chamber. She took a few deep breaths as she stalked across the empty room, trying to shake the terror of almost being bitten a few rooms back. Her greatest fear was to feel teeth in her flesh. She was disappointed with herself for being so skittish, jumping every time she heard a stray sound – water dropping, pipes groaning, insects scaling the walls. As she came to the far side of the room, her heartbeat had returned to normal, and the knife no longer trembled in her hand. She was ready for action again.

She stepped up to the doors they had never opened, scanning the blood-caked window for any signs of movement. She expected to find several dozen walkers inside, perhaps enough to warrant retrieving her partner and dragging his ass over here to help her kill them, but something stopped her. She wanted to do this on her own.

She pulled one of the doors open as gently as she could, slipping inside and letting it shut again. She barely took a breath, barely made a sound with each step. She crept along the hall and peeked into the rooms, drawing back when she saw bodies piled on the office desks. Some of them moved and groaned, reacting to her presence. She swallowed her last bit of oxygen and walked inside, shutting the door behind her and driving a knife through the skulls of the pitiful, starving creatures she found there. It was quiet, but each time she did this she was a bit more cautious as she reentered the hallway. She cleared four offices, producing just enough sound to make the group behind the last door interested.

It was a typical office door, though interlaced with metal and sprayed with blood. A uniformed body was slumped against it, shot through the head, rotting because it had never become a walker. The body blocked the large number of undead pressing themselves against the blurred glass, attracted by the sound of opening and closing doors. She watched them for a moment, disgusted, and then grabbed the corpse by the foot and dragged it out of the way. More walkers appeared to bang on the door, their enthusiasm growing, and their moaning bringing every walker from that direction to the same place. She took a step back. If she opened that door she would be overwhelmed before she could make a dent. She looked up, reading the sign that hung over the door "Access to A-block. Access to B-block." She couldn't handle it now, but she would come back for them, recruiting Tyreese or Diane to help her.

On her way back to C-block she encountered Glenn, who had accumulated quite a bit of blood on his slick black armor. He greeted her with a soft smile and they walked together, still alert despite being in a safe area. She went straight for the showers – rigged up with pumps discovered in the prison's storage center. She pried off her armor and stood willingly under frigid water, scrubbing the blood spatter from her skin. She hated the feeling it gave her when it dried.

Alex was with Dave for the day, giving her free reign for the rest of the afternoon. She decided on the back of the prison, where the administrative buildings had crumbled and allowed walkers to wander inside. She never went to the ground level, preferring to remain up top to watch the forest. She had been enlisted three days ago to help straighten the fence and begin to rebuild the wall, but they'd been sidetracked by Carol's illness, and construction had been focused on the front yard instead. She was slated to come out here the very next morning to survey the damage and help the others formulate a plan for reconstruction.

She sat for a while watching the sky, lying on the dirty concrete and letting the cold flow through her body. It got dark quickly, making her realize how long she'd spent running through hallways in the core of the prison; the temperature plummeted. She was struck with the desire to see Alex again, but something made her stay on the roof. Something was touching the back of her mind, begging for attention. She got up, climbed down the broken wall, and stood against the fence, staring into the forest and trying to figure out what was bothering her. It had to be out there. It had to be something she'd seen recently.

The ferns in the corner of her eye shifted and a flash of white passed by. She jerked away from the fence, staring at that spot until her eyes watered and she had to blink. A movement like that wasn't caused by the wind, and walkers would've been coming toward her by now. She pulled her knife out and stepped up to the fence again, trying to sort out the shadows that danced within the trees. It was impossible. The moon wasn't bright enough.

A twig snapped to the right and prompted her to climb over the bent fence, her eyes scanning the trees, her blood alive with the sensation of danger. She saw the white flash again, but only in the corner of her eye – she couldn't distinguish which direction it had come from. She tilted her head, listening, and continued to watch the trees in front of her.

Suddenly she heard a sloshing sound, the sound of a blade rushing through someone's skull, and a body dropped from the tree directly to her right. She jumped back, holding her knife out defensively, and stared around, painfully aware that walkers didn't climb trees. Nothing happened. She waited for several minutes, her senses straining for any signs of life, but the forest was quiet again. She looked at the body reluctantly, aware that he'd been a living, breathing human only moments ago. She knew him. It was the Governor's lackey, that black man with ridiculously good aim. As for why he was in the tree, she could guess he'd been waiting to kill whoever was dumb enough to wander out here. But who had stabbed him?

The last person she wanted to see came strolling from the woods, wiping fresh blood off of his bladed arm and smiling sadistically. He walked over to the man he'd killed, looking down at him with an expression of disgust. "Shumpert, how's it hangin'?" He laughed when there was no response, crouching to check the guy's pockets. "You're a lucky, lucky lady," he said to her, standing and circling her the way a vulture circles a rotten carcass. "Hell of a shot, that one. Had his crosshairs on ya. One more second and you would'a been takin' a dirt nap."

She stared at him, capable only of revulsion. She hated the look on his face. She hated the way he stood, the way he was dressed, he way he held seemed to relax and tense up at the same time. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, if stopping her from being executed was a sincere gesture, or just him having fun with his free time. Honestly, when Daryl had come back fruitless in his efforts to find his brother, she'd been glad. This man was no good.

"What?" he demanded, "No love for the guy who jus' saved your ass? Fine, fine." He walked to the broken section of the gate, climbed over, and stood on the pile of rubble leading into the prison. He looked back at her, winked, and said, "Gotta go check in on Darylena, make sure he ain't up shit creek without his favorite paddle. You comin', or you gonna stand there all night and wait for the biters to sniff that blood?"

She climbed the fence and followed him, glancing wearily at the dead man on the ground. She hope they would come to eat, and then disperse, paying no mind whatsoever to the prison. She paused at the top of the rubble pile and watched the forest, wondering if the Governor was out there somewhere, laughing at her.

"I been trackin' those bastards up and down the Jacket ever since I saw him Jim Jones those people on the roadside. Ain't seen one 'till today. Looky where he brought me: Home sweet home."

She watched him uneasily. His words weren't sincere, and between the sarcasm and the cruelty with which he spoke, how he referred to those slaughtered on the road that day, she knew she should've gone for his throat the moment she saw him. There was nothing good about what was happening. He was walking into the prison like he owned the place, going to stir things up, to ruin the peace they'd found. She just hoped Rick would kick him out before it got too bad.

XxX

Daryl was alone in his shared cell, staring at the ceiling, breathing slowly and steadily to keep from waking the baby on his chest. He didn't know if he could survive another bout of crying. She could awaken any time screaming for no reason, but as the minutes rolled on, Daryl's mind settled and he was able to think of his dilemma again. He had a pregnant horse in the pasture, due to foal in about two months, and that meant his work load was about to be doubled. He'd thought of teaching Carl and Owen to take care of the horses, offering them riding lessons in exchange for child labor, but he was cautious; he didn't want anyone around Demon, and Flame wasn't exactly the life of the party. He was relying on the new horse, the gorgeous fox trotter he'd brought back for Carol, to be child-friendly, or at least a little more obedient than the others. So far she'd proven to be an intelligent animal, responsive to commands, a little weary of the undead, but teachable. She wore a saddle, allowed Michonne and Daryl to mount and dismount without kicking up a fuss, and stood all day at the edge of the field, watching the children play. He hoped she wasn't sizing them up for a duel. However worried he was about her fate, and the fate of her foal, he couldn't feel anxious where he lay. There was a baby breathing gently into his skin, her little hand twitching on his collarbone, and he knew that she would grin at him upon waking up, that she'd be foggy-eyed and dopey in her little pink pajamas.

She woke up to a loud clanging downstairs, prompting Daryl to immediately hold a grudge against whoever had caused it. Judith raised her head, stared at him, and grinned, her eyes half-narrowed, prompting a chuckle from Daryl. He sat her up on the bed and entertained her with her favorite toy, a soft-furred teddy bear, waiting to hear voices from downstairs. It was silent.

"Let's go check it out," he said to the baby, holding her in one arm and wrapping her up in a blanket with the other. She seemed to disagree with the Inuit-style outfit, but as soon as they left the cell, she was immediately interested in what was going on. Daryl, disturbed by the amount of people looking nervously into the dining room, descended the stairs and pushed past them, getting his own look at who had awakened his little charge.

His heart must've stopped beating.

He pushed through the door, staring at the man who sat casually at one of the tables, watched like a hawk by several armed guards, eating ramen noodles out of a cracked bowl as if he'd been there all along, not missing for six months.

"Hey there little brother," he greeted in that raspy, sarcastic voice, rising from his place and stuffing the last of his noodles into his mouth. He looked at the baby, who was watching him closely, and tsked deep in his throat. "Growin' like a weed. Surprised you kept it alive when the Governor came for y'all," he looked around and chuckled, glad that his words had produced disgust from everyone. "What? The Governor's fond of lil' girls. He might've taken her for a spin, if he could get his hands on her, if you know what I mean."

Daryl readjusted his hold on the baby, shaking his head at his brother. "Where were you? Don't tell me you pulled that Atlanta shit all over again. It's not my fault you-"

"Whoa, whoa, easy there," Merle walked over, putting his hand on Daryl's shoulder. He nodded in affirmation of his own guilt, seeming conscious of the effect his actions had on Daryl. He saw something else in Merle's face at that moment, but he couldn't identify it. "I had a little business to take care of in the south, some scores to settle. 'Sides, after that stunt I pulled, the Governor had his hounds combin' the area. Thought I'd split before I lost my other hand."

"He's been gone for months," Daryl pointed out, losing the anger he'd managed to build up. He really didn't care what his brother had been doing, or why he'd spent six months out on the road fending for himself; he was back, and that was all that mattered. Daryl had spent long summers on his front porch, waiting for his brother to come home from one party or another, and he always had the same feeling when he saw him. Dad would back off for the night. Merle would be there and their dad would leave them alone. They'd play cards until the morning sun came out, and then they'd go fishing in the creek, or hike into the mountains to check their snares. His entire life had been spent waiting on that man, and despite how much they'd both changed, he still felt a familiar sense of love and loyalty when Merle was around.

Merle shrugged, leaning down to meet Judith's fascinated stare. He tilted his head at her, narrowed his eyes, and said 'boo.' The baby jumped a little, but then giggled, throwing her little arms up and down. "She's Officer Friendly's, ain't she?"

Daryl nodded.

"Cute." Merle stood upright and looked around. "Ain't y'all got somethin' better to do? Standin' around like I'm some kinda criminal." He waved his hand dismissively, reaching out for the baby. "Let me hold her for a sec. I ain't held a kid since… since you was born."

"That's not happening, Merle."

Both brothers turned, finding Rick just coming in with Carl on his heels. Daryl passed the baby willingly to Rick, stepping back and waiting for the storm to come. It was time to fight for his brother's place in the prison again. He wouldn't let him leave. He couldn't go through that again. But his friend, his brother in everything but blood, didn't begin the verbal war that would've gotten Merle thrown out into the wilderness. He just glared at him for a moment, thinking, and then, holding Judith in one arm, he extended his hand.

Daryl's eyebrows shot up, as did Carl's and Merle's. Laughing crudely, Merle took his hand and gave it a firm shake. Rick's eyes never left the man's face. "What you did, that earned you a place here, but you gotta learn to get along with the people in this prison. If you don't, you can't stay. That's the end of it." He looked at Daryl, nodded, and headed for the door, adding a few quick words over his shoulder. "And stay away from my daughter."

"Wow, little brother, you been chewin' on the sheriff's balls?" Merle chortled when the others had cleared out, following Rick to argue with him about the decision he'd made. Daryl wasn't even sure what was going on. He'd been so ready for a fight that he was still in his defensive stance.

He scowled at his brother's words, but didn't respond. "He's serious, Merle. Don't screw this up." He thought suddenly of Carol and headed for the door – she'd be outside, monitoring the kids as they caught the last fireflies of the season.

"Don't you worry 'bout a thing. Ain't nobody splittin' us up again, ya hear?" He laughed, jogging after Daryl and holding pushing through the door first. He went straight to Carol, who was wrapped up in a thick blanket, and crouched beside her chair, hitting her at eye-level with that weird expression he liked to give people. Daryl followed him cautiously, catching the tail end of what he was saying. "… nice I bet. Come on, you sure you ain't a dike?"

Far from being intimidated or insulted by him, she glanced over, cocked an eyebrow, and murmured, "I heard you were back."

"Merle, back off," Daryl warned, coming around the other side of the chair. He couldn't help the defensive feeling in his stomach, and though he trusted his brother with his life, he didn't trust anyone to be around Carol.

"_What_? I'm just havin' a little fun." He stood up, looking down at Carol and tilting his head. He licked his lips. He leaned to look over the blanket covering her body, and then his eyes narrowed. He pulled it away, ignoring her protests. "Would ya look at that?" He turned, waving his arms around. "Who's the lucky fella? Come on, don't be shy. Ain't no shame in puttin' some wood in the oven, ya know what I mean?" he turned back to Daryl to get support for his words, but Daryl's expression had frozen into a cold, harassed scowl. He paused. His expression was wiped of all sarcasm and cruelty. "You gotta be shittin' me."

Daryl turned and headed for the cell block, aware of what had driven them apart during adulthood. Sure, they were similar in many ways, and he loved his brother enough to work through the stupid things he did, but in some respects they were too different. Standing out there, listening to his brother harass someone who had become a major part of his life, he worked up enough anger to physically attack him; he chose instead to go back to his cell and throw a few jabs at the wall, tearing the skin from his knuckles in the process. He kept finding the anger again, striking the cinderblocks to get it out of his system; he was tired of being conflicted, he was tired of listening to his brother talk, but he was unable to make him leave. He couldn't do that.

Only minutes after he'd gotten back to the cell, Merle appeared in the doorway, watching him with a solemn expression. For once he kept his damn mouth shut. Daryl sat against the wall, his knees drawn up, his bloody hands hanging above a small pool of blood. It stung, but hitting the wall was better than breaking his brother's jaw. What his brother had said brought back the fear he had about becoming a father, the indecision he faced, the challenge of avoiding anything that made him feel like his own father. He remembered Carol's reasons for leaving that day, the health problems that would come into reality too soon; he remembered why he couldn't hang around the prison all day. If he got any closer to her, losing her would be catastrophic.

"How far along is she?" Merle's voice was soft and raspy. He sat on the bed, looking at Daryl with the same expression he used when he came home those summer evenings. Then, his words had been, "Where is he?" or "How many bottles?" and Daryl would give him a status report. Depending on his answer, Merle would either take him to the lake, or take him inside and cook him supper, keeping his mind far away from the back bedroom. His words, though painted by a lifetime of merciless sarcasm, arrogance, and anger, were gentle on Daryl's ears. Anyone else would've thought he was trying to mock his brother. Daryl knew differently.

He shrugged. "'Tween four and five months. No way to know exactly."

"Well, lucky I came back when I did. Brat's gonna need babysittin'."

Daryl looked up and their eyes met. He knew that Merle could feel his fear, brought on by his own dark thoughts, but, for once, his brother didn't pick on him for it. He just pressed his lips together, nodded as if affirming his last statement, and left the cell.

Daryl was left alone to consider what might happen now that his brother was back, and though he wanted everything to get better, he knew that it wouldn't. He felt it in his gut.


	26. Kin

Merle Dixon made his way through the forest, tracing a route from the back of the prison to the very front, where the majority of his big-game snares had been set up. Fall was turning rapidly into winter – he figured it was somewhere around mid-November, perhaps a little earlier. As he rode he kept a tight hold on Daryl's horse's reigns, directing him up and down the slopes, grabbing herbs and spices when he could distinguish them from sheets of ivy. He also hunted squirrel and rabbit, hopping in and out of the saddle to retrieve his catch and the knife he'd used to pin it down. His fishing traps, crude cages set up along the river, were as empty as the liquor bottle on his side table, but he'd managed to snag a few tadpoles in the jug he'd prepared especially for them. Frog-rearing was a sure-fire way of getting steady food, even though the others would see it as disgusting. He knew the value in a good frog farm. His largest snares, made of chicken wire and placed cleverly on the main paths used by local herds, were empty; one was disturbed, as if it had been just a few inches away from catching supper. He checked his bear trap last, amused to find a walker trying its damndest to keep walking with the mounted trap hanging on to its ankle. He killed it, reset the trap, and directed Demon to the front gate, riding silently through. He dismounted near the pasture and sent the horse toward it, motioning to the black boy Daryl had tasked with caring for his horse. "Hey, boy, go take that saddle off and scrape the bear shit outta 'is hooves."

Giving him a dark expression, the kid turned and headed for the stables. Merle watched until he successfully led the horse into the lean-to, glad he didn't have to go intervene and stop the kid from being stomped to death. He pulled his catch off of his back and examined the four squirrels, disappointed by their size; the rabbit was fat enough to make up for it. He stood in the courtyard and hung his catch beside what Daryl had brought back that morning, setting the jug of tadpoles down beside it. He drained some of the water and refilled it, providing them with more oxygen, and then he separated them into two long, clear plastic bins he'd set up in C-block. These tadpoles were late bloomers, doomed to die when the first big freeze came along, but if they stayed out of the wind, he could raise them and serve them when they grew into toads. As he came back out, wiping his wet hands on his faded blue jeans, he spotted movement in the far right field. Carol was wobbling around the clotheslines, pulling the dry garments off and folding them into her basket. She wore a thin long-sleeved sweater, shivering occasionally. He went to join her.

He shrugged off the thick leather jacket he'd been given from the store room, forcing her into it despite her assurances that she was fine. She went on with what she was doing, miffed, and he began inspecting the tattered clothes she was tending. Bloodstains, rips and tears, stretched fabric. "I'm surprised my brother ain't crawlin' up your ass," he commented, grabbing her arm to steady her when she stepped in one of the many rabbit holes dotting this area. Sensing amusement rather than fear coming from the tolerant woman, he turned her around, zipped up the jacket, and nodded to himself. "I don't blame 'em for keepin' a close eye. The way I hear it, you get into some stupid shit."

Carol smirked, pulling a shirt from the line and tossing it toward the basket. It landed in the grass two feet away and Merle retrieved it, grabbing the basket and standing nearby with it. She glanced at him, one eyebrow cocked, and then smiled slightly, continuing what she was doing.

"It's funny," Merle said, following her along the line, "I thought he'd go for that hot blonde in there; I had him pegged for sweet young delights."

She looked over, placing the last shirt in the basket. "I get it. I'm old, ugly, and not his type." She reached back to reattach a clothespin, smiling candidly. "You're gonna have to get used to me, Merle. I'm not going anywhere."

"That's not what I was gettin' at," he responded, amused by her strength. When he'd known her all that time ago, she'd been submissive and passive, but now there was fire in her eyes. He knew he wouldn't mind being stuck with her. It was the quiet ones he couldn't stand. "You're a _lady_," he correct, "And my brother… he's more of a wild dog lookin' for a little meat to sniff at, if you catch my drift."

"You're disgusting."

"Don't I know it?"

She was silent for a moment, and then she said, "Between you and Daryl, I can't find a second for myself. Wherever I go, one of you pops up." She glanced over, smiling slightly, "Don't tell me you're going soft, Merle."

"You said yourself I'm a late bloomer," he pointed out, though the idea of seeming weak made him a bit angry. He reserved that emotion in his words, but it poured out through his tone. "Let me tell ya somethin', darling, watchin' out for your kin ain't goin' soft. I can tell you right now if somebody came through that gate and wanted to do somethin' to my brother or that baby, I'd have a problem with 'em, sure as shit."

She watched him for a moment and then looked away. He couldn't tell what was running through her mind – he was better at reading animals than people, having spent so long ignoring the expressions of others. Now that he'd spent time in the prison, he was watching the survivors more closely, studying them so that he'd always have the upper hand. He'd done the same thing in Woodbury. But it was the people you wanted to read the most that were the hardest.

He decided to change the topic, uncomfortable with her thoughtful silence. "Why'd you cut your hair like that if you ain't lookin' for a little lady lovin'?"

She looked at him with an expression of strained patience. "Isn't there a small furry animal you need to go kill?"

"Got plenty," he motioned to the courtyard.

"Merle, do me a favor."

"What?"

"Go _away_."

XxX

He didn't go away. Carol was considering finding a gun and shooting him if he asked her one more question about her hair, her clothes, or about having sex with his brother. He followed her around like a lost puppy, harassing anyone they passed, picking a fight with Marcus, using twenty different racial slurs for black people, and referring to Glenn as 'Little China' every time he saw him. She tried to apologize, she tried sending him away, and she even tried using Rick to scrape him off, but everyone was too preoccupied with their construction projects to pay any mind to the older Dixon, who was becoming a sore spot on her side. If she spent much more time with him, she might start having nightmares about his head floating around, babbling at her. Evening came before Merle admitted that Daryl had asked him to babysit her; he'd gone out hunting, trying to make up for how annoying his brother was by providing everyone with a substantial meal. He would pay for what he'd done.

The sun was still up when Carol went from playing with Alex to sitting with the kids downstairs, reading them a few sections from a nursery rhyme book given to her by Michonne. Her bodyguard sat halfway up the steps, just far enough to make the kids nervous, just close enough so she could see his dark eyes tracing the ground, his expression thoughtful. Marcus had come out specifically to stare venomously at Merle, frustrated because Merle wouldn't bait him and cause another fight. Carol was impressed at Merle's self-control. He came to the bottom of the steps at one point, beckoned down by Cane, who, remarkably, had brought him something from outside.

She watched, her breath catching, as the little boy handed over a flower, staring at Merle with wide eyes. He scampered back to Carol and hid in her arms, leaving Merle sitting there, all that muscle, that hardened face, those dark eyes, holding a little flower between his index finger and his thumb, staring at it as if he didn't know what to make of what had just happened.

Carol wrapped the story up and sent everyone back to their parents, going over to Marcus to try and ease some of his rage. "Don't let him get to you. He's just… he's… he's an asshole, but he's Daryl's brother. You'll get used to him."

He shrugged, called his sons over, and led them into his cell, seeming to share the same expression as Owen when it came to the man on the steps. She sighed, wishing he wouldn't revert to his old self, and then went to sit with Merle. He still had the flower.

"Does he talk?" he wondered of Cane.

She pressed her lips together and shook her head sadly. "Only to me, and sometimes his dad. He can't handle everything that's going on – he's scared to death of walkers, he just cries every time he sees them."

"Hmm." He reached over, opened her palm, and placed the flower there, hauling himself up and holding out his only hand. "Sundown. Better get started up the stairs if you wanna get to bed by midnight."

"Funny."

XxX

Merle didn't follow her up, even though his new room was right beside the one she shared with his baby brother. He knew what awaited him there. Four walls, a roof, a flickering candle, and more silence than anyone should have to endure. He stood on the catwalk and looked over the first floor, wondering why some of the kids curled up on those damn mattresses instead of finding a cozy cell to curl up in. Perhaps they stayed outside for the same reasons he did.

He wasn't standing there more than ten minutes when he heard a harsh whispering from one of the cells below. He leaned over, listening, and figured it was that guy who had been watching him during story time – a street fighter by the looks of him. The kid who'd given him a flower for no apparent reason was pushed out of an open door, followed by the stable boy. The little one was crying, and the older one had rage on his face. He looked up at Merle, scowled, and took his brother by the hand, leading him to one of the mattresses and tucking him in. He didn't get into bed himself, but left the cell block. Merle's interest was piqued.

He followed the kid all the way up to the roof, where they had an excellent view of the forest as it went on for miles and miles, housing walkers who brushed by this place without a second look. He walked to the edge, catching the glow of a single headlight weaving down the road. His brother was back. The kid walked over and pressed his hands on the edge, shutting his eyes, sighing, and leaning into the open air.

"Dad givin' ya a hard time?" Merle wondered.

The kid looked at him, and then looked away, stubbornly refusing to answer. If he didn't remind Merle so much of himself, he would've left the rooftop and went out to greet his brother, seeing what he caught and deciding upon a meal. He wouldn't give a kid he didn't know a second thought, especially one he'd been trained to hate by his own father; as much as he rebelled against his predispositions toward the other races, he couldn't stop thinking about specific events in his life that had proved everything his father had said.

But this was just a kid, too young to have done any of the things on his mind. He remained on the rooftop, thinking for a little while about the words he'd say, and then he just let them out. "You done good takin' care of that kid." He turned and sat on the edge of the roof, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it. He spoke through the filter. "Brothers gotta stick together."

Finally, the kid dropped his stubbornness and looked at Merle, his lips pressed together. "What do you know about it? You left your brother."

He shrugged. "Came back, didn't I?" He took a puff and blew smoke in the kid's face, making him cough. "Listen, it's the scale of things that matter; I took care of Daryl when he needed it, and I let him take care of himself when he could. He don't need me anymore."

"Then why are you here?"

"I need him, I guess." Merle stood, flicked his cigarette over the edge, watching it smolder on the concrete. "Now get your ass back inside. Ain't nobody dyin' a' hypothermia tonight."


	27. Brothers

Daryl entered his cell to find Carol already sleeping with her back to the door, a faded romance novel lying beside her and Merle's leather jacket thrown over the chair. Sugar, who'd been curled up against her legs, got up and stretched, her tail wagging drowsily at his approach. He scooped her up and left the room, walking next door and finding his brother sitting up on his bunk, sharpening the knife at the end of his prosthetic. He sat beside him, laying the dog between his legs, and rested his head on the wall.

He didn't know what he should say, so he remained silent, sitting up occasionally to watch his brother work on his weapons. Merle was the same way, not caring for words, but appreciating the company. Daryl could remember a time when his brother would throw him out of his room and lock the door just to keep him from peeking in; when he finally let Daryl back in, he found a fort constructed of sheets, or a miniature catapult made of broken pieces of plywood. Those were the days before his mother had died, foggy in his memory, but precious. His father was a bitter man, but he refrained from violence for the most part, preferring to drink himself into unconsciousness and ramble on about the disgusting state of the house. When she wasn't high or drunk herself, his mother would sit on the bed he shared with Merle in the back bedroom, watching them play. Now it seemed so strange to sit beside Merle, replaying a memory from thirty-odd years ago.

An hour passed. Merle presented him with cards, stated "Blackjack," and began to deal. They sat facing each other, free of conversation, but cursing when they fell behind in the game. When that was through they played Gin Rummy, and then went straight into spades. Merle kept winning, like he always did. He claimed Daryl's dog for the duration of the game, stroking its head while he looked thoughtfully at his hand.

Eventually Daryl was too tired to continue. He packed up the cards, slid them into their box, and took Sugar out of Merle's lap, holding her in one arm and lingering in the doorway. His brother had gotten up to change his shirt in preparation for bed – Daryl's eyes flickered over the deep notches in the skin above his shoulder blades. He saw a glimpse of what his own back must've looked like. Merle turned to him, apparently deciding that he didn't need a shirt to sleep, and took a deep breath, preparing to same something that went against his nature. Daryl braced himself.

"I didn't know he would hit ya'," he said, pressing his lips together matter-of-factly, as if his words couldn't be made simpler than they already were. His voice was raspy, as always, but his tone was as desperate as it had been that day in the forest when he told Daryl he couldn't go back to the prison with him. That was his most apologetic tone, the one that made him so human it cancelled out his idiotic behavior. He used that tone when they were kids, talking Daryl out of fights they couldn't win, comforting him when he plunged into a freezing river one winter.

Hearing it now, Daryl couldn't stand the way his brother's voice sounded. If it had been anyone else, Daryl could've responded, he could've told them to piss off and mind their own business, he could've walked away and forgotten all about it, he could've escaped the things repressed in his mind, but this was his _brother_. This was the person he thought about each time a belt burned across his back. This was the face he saw. This was the name he whispered when he prayed at night. This was the voice he wanted to hear walking down the lane, coming to pick him up, coming to take him away from the life he'd been left with.

He couldn't listen to it now, not when he had a child on the way, not when he was trying his hardest to bottle every childhood memory up and forget about it forever. The more he remembered about their father, the harder it was to hold on to the person he'd become. It made him angry. It made him furious. It made him physical. He looked like the man, he spoke like the man, he walked like the man, and he had inherited the temper that drove him to beat scars into his sons. That night could've been so perfect, a silent reunion, no words to represent how great it was to be around each other again, but Merle ruined it. He ruined everything.

Daryl left without a word, tossed the puppy onto the bed with Carol, grabbed his jacket, and headed for the exit, seeking fresh air to pull him out of this waking nightmare. Why did his brother have to bring that up? Why couldn't he just keep his mouth shut and forget about it like Daryl had? He was guilty about it. That emotion, that painful guilt, was all over his brother's face. But lying wasn't going to take the guilt away. He knew that Merle was lying. He knew it like he knew how cold it was outside, like he knew how quickly his heart was beating as he made it onto the roof. His only proof, though, was a memory so black he hadn't thought of it since the day it had happened. Merle's words, coupled with his tone, and that apologetic look on his face, stirred the grime at the bottom of Daryl's mind, and brought a memory, a tragedy, to life.

XxX

It was dawn. He'd been lying in the basement all night, blood draining from his shoulder blades, his face pressed into the cold concrete. His mouth was dry, his limbs tingling from blood loss and their contorted angles. But why was he here? Thrown. He'd been thrown down the stairs. He could remember it clearly; a flash of light from the bulb above, and then the wood smashing into his face, and then the ceiling. His skin was tight, bruised, swollen; his head throbbed in sync with his heartbeat, and he felt that someone was beating a drum right above him.

But he couldn't be here. He wasn't a kid anymore, and this house had burnt down. He sat up painfully, rubbing his neck, blinking to take in his surroundings. He found his old toys stored in the corner, colorless, lifeless, most of them broken. He looked up the stairs to the door, which he was never supposed to go through. He was through it already.

The door opened and his brother, only thirty years younger than before, took the steps two at a time, falling to his side and handing him a cup of water. He smelled it. Alcohol. He drank eagerly and then vomited, listening to his brother scold him for wasting the drink. His voice had that tone about it, that tone Daryl had just heard, only in a different time period. It was so much lighter now, just coming out of puberty, but still so harsh that only Daryl could tell when he was being nice, and when he was being cruel. Now he was sorry. He was so sorry.

"I have to go," he murmured, holding Daryl up with one hand. His eyes flickered across Daryl's face, searching for something. Daryl noticed for the first time he had a bad shiner, and his nose was crooked – he hadn't straightened it since his last run in with their father. He smiled as kindly as he could under the circumstances, rustled Daryl's blood-matted hair, and said, "Be strong, brother. I'll come back for you."

He didn't come back. Daryl knew that he was having a nightmare, that this had happened to him a long, long time ago, and that his brother had eventually come back, but he still felt the crushing weight of sitting on those steps, staring at the horizon, waiting to see his brother's face again. Yes, he knew that Daryl was beaten as much as him, but he still left. It was his most powerful memory, the dominate picture in his mind. That last look at Merle's face before his childhood ended and the fury of his father descended on him full force.

XxX

Daryl woke up in a lawn chair on the roof, drooling down the side of his face, a blanket spread over his chest and legs. He sat up, rubbed his head, and groaned, trying to shake off the migraine that had come from the cold. His brother stood nearby, sucking on a cigarette and staring at the horizon, blowing clouds of smoke into the frigid night air. Daryl guess the blanket was his doing, and the bottle of whiskey on the ground beside him. He picked it up, pulled the top off, and drank at least half – it was chilly, but brain freeze had nothing on the headache he already had.

"I should a' killed him," Merle said, breaking the still air with his quite, but threatening words. He finished his cigarette and threw it into the air, pulling out another and lighting it. He glanced back at Daryl, his expression as dark as the hood over his eyes, and then looked at the stars. "Yep, seems we'll be waitin' a month or two for Christmas."

Drinking what he could of the whiskey before it made him feel sick, Daryl also looked at the stars, measuring the constellations and drawing their names from memory. His brother was right. It was only about mid-November, giving them a while before the new year rolled around, and even longer before new growth began in the forest. He couldn't wait for spring, when vegetables would be grown easier, and more herbs would appear in the forest.

Merle came over and sat on the end of Daryl's lawn chair, motioning to the sky. "It's not a… a constellation, but remember what we called that?" He took a puff of his cigarette, waiting for Daryl to figure it out. When he came up with nothing, Merle chuckled, "You were no bigger than that mute kid in there; you called it 'little boy napping,' but you couldn't say it right, so ya ended up sayin' 'little boy crapping,' and when I told momma, I said, 'you know what he named them stars out there? Little boy shitting.'"

He tried to recall that night, but he couldn't. He was too young. He laughed, though, feeling that his brother would've done something like that. He wondered if his own child would be able to have those types of experiences, or if life in the prison would rob them of their childhood. That thought darkened his mood, and his brother saw this.

"Sorry for bringin' that up, back there."

"Don't worry about it." Daryl picked the bottle up again, determined to finish it off. His brother took it and drunk the rest, handing him back the empty glass. He sighed. "I'm not askin' for a chick flick moment, I just want to know… why you said you'd come back."

"I thought I would." Merle pressed his lips together again, thinking, and retrieved another bottle of whiskey from under the chair. He handed it to Daryl. "I was a kid then, I thought I could become a marine and come back anytime I wanted – bein' a hero and all. Turns out I was wrong." He watched Daryl for a moment, and then he heaved a heavy breath. "Truth is, after a few years I didn't want to come back. Don't get me wrong, if I could a' remembered… if I knew what he was doing, I would've come back and put a bullet in his brain. But the thought of… of never going back there, it was just too _good_."

Daryl took a deep breath, struggling with those words, and they both took a swig of the whiskey. He was beginning to feel it burning in his mind, chasing away the headache but making him dizzy and amplifying emotion. He felt angry at his brother, but he didn't do anything with it. He let it stew in his thoughts until it faded away. He knew that if he'd been the older one, he would've done the same thing; he would've never gone back to that house. He stared at his brother, unsure of his own expression, and wished to say something in response, anything.

"It's over now," he said at last, handing the bottle to Merle. "He's dead, we're grown ass men, and that shithole burned to the ground."

"You feel like it's over?" Merle leaned closer, shifting his head and forcing Daryl to look him in the eyes. He looked aggressive and empathetic at the same time, a trademark of Merle. "Look me in the eye, baby brother, and tell me you ain't comparing yourself to that bastard right now, thinkin' you'll turn out like him with that baby a' yours. Go on. Say it."

Daryl glared at him, but couldn't respond. He looked away. He hated it when Merle was right, especially now that he'd been making the good decisions, and his brother the bad. Either Daryl was becoming more like him, or Merle was becoming more like Daryl. He couldn't tell. He didn't want to. He was too full of alcohol, digested quickly enough to disorient him, and still burning with the memory his brother had unwittingly awakened.

Merle looked him up and down, sighing. "Let's get you to bed, Darylena. Looks like you been hangin' around the lightweights too much."

"Stop calling me that." He spoke with his eyes closed. Merle hauled him out of the chair and forced him down the ladder, supporting him under one arm and leading him into the cell block. Daryl felt like he was falling sideways, and if his brother hadn't been holding onto him, he would've gone face-first into every metal wall they passed. "Watch out," he advised, pointing at the stairs but seeing them as something entirely different. He was sure they looked dangerous. His brother chuckled, said he'd be careful, and began dragging him up to the second floor.

Finally he found his cell. Daryl stumbled inside, crashed into the side table, and knocked the candle to the floor. Sighing, Merle picked up after him, assuring Carol that he'd had a little too much to drink. She sat up, watching him with tired, concerned eyes. He sat down beside her, kicked off his shoes, and crawled to the innermost part of the bed, pressing his face into the pillow. His head throbbed. He felt like the room was spinning.

"He'll be fine in the morning, just, uh, keep the light out."

"Thank you for bringing him back."

"Yeah, well, I'll be damned if he's sleeping in my room. He kicks like a mule."


	28. We Need To Talk

**I got an anonymous review saying someone doesn't see the Carol and Daryl connection in my story – that's understandable, and sorry, sometimes I get sidetracked. I don't like to go into long, dopey paragraphs about it, I just put it into simple moments between them, at least once every few chapters. I mean, they live in the zombie apocalypse, they can't drool over each other all day. It's a rough life to keep up with. But I will try to step up the relationship between them – it's about time they had a candid talk about their future together. Also, just to make sure you all know, I didn't create that scene between Michonne and Daryl as a love connection. They're just friends. I think Daryl needs more friends.**

**Also, I've finally found the perfect song for Marcus **( watch?v=Ti7FB80MHdg) **The part that really stands out is, of course, "**_**Born in grief/ raised in hate/ helpless to/ defy his fate – let him run, let him live, but do not forget what we can not forgive**_**."**

XxX

Daryl awakened around noon, his eye sockets burning from the shit-load of whiskey he'd had the night before; despite the pain in his head, he felt wired, like he hadn't moved from that spot in months. Soft light and a gentle, cold breeze came through the open door, lifting the heat from his skin and stifling the nausea in his belly. As far as hangovers went, he'd had worse. He stretched until his muscles trembled, yawning a few times, rubbing the crust from his eyes and the drool from his cheek. He was brushing his hair when Carol came in, Cane on her heels, both of them smiling affectionately at him. She handed Daryl a bottle from the side table, one that had been refilled and relabeled. "Here. It'll stop the headache, for the most part."

He groaned, took the bottle, and rolled back into the pillows, shutting his eyes to dim the throbbing in his skull. Carol shut the cell door and placed Cane on the bed; the kid ran directly to Daryl's side and started poking him in the ribs, followed immediately by an oversized puppy who insisted on laying across his face to protect him from the invasive toddler. He shoved her off, sat up, and swept Cane up in both arms, tickling him until he surrendered. He fled to Carol, who was sitting at the foot of the bed, and catapulted himself into her arms, peeping at Daryl from behind her shoulder, a grin on his face.

She filled him in on the progress outside, assured him that the horse he'd brought back, now called Nanny by all of the kids, was gentle and friendly. It didn't seem to matter that he'd been out drinking with his brother, that he'd probably lashed out at her in his sleep, troubled by the nightmares still fresh on his mind, but he knew better than to assume she wasn't thinking about it. He watched her face for changes, aware of the decline of her mood; he could see that she was worried about something, probably something his brother had said to her when he was out.

"Don't believe the shit Merle says," he advised, voicing the tail-end of a long line of assumptions. She frowned. Daryl sat up and put his feet on the ground, prompting Cane to climb across his lap to surprise the dog curled up in the corner. Sugar yelped, skittered to the floor, and burst through the cell door with Cane hot on her tail. Daryl got up and shut the door behind them. Carol watched him, but said nothing. "What?" he demanded, "What'd he say? I got daddy issues? I'm only half the man I think I am?" He didn't realize at first that his tone became aggressive, brought on by the thoughts he'd had the night before and the resentment he'd developed for his brother. When she looked away, her eyes shutting in a momentary show of submission and patience, he cut himself off. He hated it when she did that.

She waited until his temper cooled to take his hand and pull him back to the bed. He sat heavily beside her, sighing, rubbing his face with both hands. "He didn't say anything to me, not like that," she said, her hand on his shoulder. "Why? Did he say something like that to you?"

"No." He let his voice simmer down until it was almost nothing, a gentle whisper to lower her guard; he was glad she was the only one in the room. "We need to talk." He met her eyes and then stood, peeked outside, and ordered Cane to take the dog to the lower level. He locked the door with a padlock and sat down with the key in his hand, using it as a distraction to put some more thought into what he would say.

She kissed his shoulder and then slid back, lying against the wall. "So talk." Her expanded stomach made it look like she'd swallowed a watermelon, and it lay there on the mattress, a separate entity, almost immobilizing the woman who carried it. She saw him staring and took a deep breath. "Merle wanted to know how you were. And I told him."

"What'd you say?"

"I said I didn't know."

He smiled slightly at her tone, which implied a few more words than she was willing to say. _So why don't I know, Daryl? Why won't you talk to me?_ He stretched once more and then lay beside her, his eyes still on her stomach. This was the center of his struggle, this lump on the mattress, this little thing that grew so quickly, that would soon be giggling and grinning like Judith, begging him to hold it up by its hands so it could attempt to walk across the floor of the prison. He said nothing, transfixed, isolated by his thoughts. He knew that admitting any of the fantasies in his mind would make him choke up, and his nature fought against that. He wanted to ask the questions that she hadn't considered yet. What if she didn't make it, and the baby did? What if both of them died and Daryl was left alone? What would he do with himself? He'd tried to avoid thinking of the best case scenario, but it filled him with hope, and also devastation. He could be the luckiest man alive, with a strong woman like Carol who looked after him, a beautiful child, and his big brother, or he could lose everything in one moment.

Carol always saw this in him. She sensed his confliction and reached out, taking one of his hands and laying it flat on her stomach. She put hers over it. Her voice trembled. "I don't want to think about losing this baby, or losing you. I just… I want him to live, and I want us to be together… what do you want?"

He thought about shrugging to avoid having to speak, but the look on her face prohibited it. If he had, he could see a slap coming on, or a vicious case of the cold shoulder. He turned his hand and held hers, losing the structure of his thoughts, the clarity of his desire; he just said what came to his mind. "I want that, too… I want it to live… the kid… and you… If anything happened… I couldn't do it."

"Don't think about it." She squeezed his hand and turned it over, letting him feel a faint movement inside her stomach. He drew in a surprised breath and she smiled. "Don't worry about what's gonna happen, okay? I'm here, I'm healthy, the baby's healthy, and we'll be that way for a few more months at least." Her eyes flickered away from his, and then back, expressing a new emotion. It was fearful, mournful, as if she was already dying, as if something catastrophic was already happening. Her words were choked. "You're gonna be a great dad. I know you are."

He pressed his hand to the side of her face, staring into it for several moments, trying his hardest to decipher what had sent her so quickly into grief. She pulled away, smiling sadly to herself, and fiddled with a hole in his shirt, murmuring that she would sew it the next time she thought about it. She was distracting herself from whatever had shadowed her thoughts.

Daryl also had shadows in his mind, the kind that weighed on him with each passing day. He'd promised Michonne, and if he didn't come clean soon, the truth would come to light in a way he didn't want. He had to be the one to tell her.

"There's something else."

Carol's eyes flickered up to his face and she frowned. "What?"

"When we were out the other day… me and Michonne… we found some strange markings on the maps from Woodbury and went to check it out. There was a military-grade bunker hidden underground. From the looks of the equipment, it was built within the last decade" He turned on his side and watched her face, finding confusion, curiosity, and fear bubbling up. She was expecting his words. It was like she already knew. "I know I promised I wouldn't leave again, but this place could be our best find yet. Rick thinks it's worth doing a full sweep. We only went through the surface level, cleared some office buildings, but there might be some useful stuff in the lower levels; and some answers." He took a deep breath. "It looked like they were studying walkers down there."

XxX

Rick stood in the corner of the dining room with his eight-month-old daughter in his right arm and an assault rifle in his left. He stared at the faces surrounding him – his friends, his family, the people he'd come to love over these last few months, the people who challenged him, who gave him purpose. He had Daryl at his right shoulder and Michonne on his left; they stood solemnly, their arms crossed over their chests, their eyes scanning the group. It wasn't everyone in the prison – children, non-fighters, and assigned guards were either in their cells or at their posts. Only those who would volunteer, or had a stake in the information provided, were present, waiting with anxious eyes to hear exactly what their loved ones would be doing. Carol sat with Cane at one of the front tables, Owen right beside her, and Diane stood with her youngest son Richard in her arms. He would be four when Christmas came. Others included Carl, Glenn, Maggie, Merle, Marcus, Sasha, John Anders – Diane's husband – and their newest group member, Asante.

Everyone was patient, listening to Rick explain the circumstances, how crucial it was that they cleared the bunker and retrieved more supplies before winter hit full-force. He could see that some understood, and some would rather reject that reality. They all had backpacks on, and they wore loaded guns in their hilts; Glenn was organizing body armor, and Merle was pacing back and forth, detaching and reattaching the blade at the end of his prosthetic. Rick was pleased with his silence. He was glad that they were ready to roll, that the majority of his people understood the risk and were willing to take it. Newer members made him cautious – Marcus, Sasha, John, and Asante hadn't been tested in the field yet, though Marcus and Sasha had passed Glenn's little agility test. That was nothing like the real thing.

Rick would be the one to decide their fates. He looked between them, nodding approvingly. "Thank you all for volunteering, but I need to make some changes." He stared at his son apologetically. "Carl, I need you here – you have to take the night post in the north tower, and sleep out on the landing to keep an eye on things." He turned toward the others, "Maggie, Glenn, I can't take both of you, I need one to stay. Make a decision. Merle," he looked at the man, who paused to listen, grinning in that irritating way he had. "You're in, but if you try anything stupid, I'll shoot you myself. Got that?" Receiving an amused nod, he went on, "Marcus, Sasha, John, go get the cars ready – we want the black SUV and the Sudan."

He paused to take a deep breath, and then he looked at the man he didn't know. The wild card, even riskier than Merle in his mind. He was _unknown_, but young, strong, and handy with weaponry. Rick wasn't willing to leave him behind when removing so much muscle from the prison, so he took a chance. "You can leave your daughter with Gloria or Carol. They'll take good care of her."

Asante nodded, smiling slightly. When he saw nothing but worry and mistrust in Rick's face, he hung his head and muttered an apology, twiddling his hands. The group in the dining room dispersed; Daryl walked over to Carol, whispered something, and then joined Rick at the door. Rick led the way to his cell, readjusting his hold on Judith, who wouldn't stop reaching for his gun. Once he was inside, he set her on the bed, handed Daryl his rifle, and groaned. Michonne appeared in the doorway a moment later, holding the map that had originally led them to the bunker. She sat in the room's only chair and spread the crinkled piece of paper on the table.

"We'll split into groups," Rick said, not even glancing at the map. "Can't risk a large group walking single-file. Michonne and I will lead one," he looked at Daryl, "You lead the other. Who do you want?"

Daryl came to the bed and sat down with Judith, making signs with his hands and smiling when she tried to imitate them. "I want Merle," he said, though Rick had expected nothing less. He knew that the two of them made a good team. "And Glenn or Maggie, whichever one decides to come."

Michonne shook her head. "If you want Glenn or Maggie you can't have Merle."

Daryl looked up sharply at Michonne, a familiar indignation brewing in the compulsive man's eyes. Faced with this, Michonne held her ground, her eyebrow cocked, her arms crossed. "Glenn hates your brother, and Maggie's not his biggest fan. It would be best to keep them separate so their fighting doesn't jeopardize the safety of the group. It's one or the other. Your friends or your brother."

"No need to be so dramatic," Rick intervened, sitting beside Daryl and smiling at his daughter, who greeted him with a hearty squeal. "I can handle Merle."

Daryl shrugged, his eyes still on Michonne. "You can have Marcus and John. I'll take Sasha and the new kid."

"It's settled then. We leave in one hour."

XxX

"You said you wouldn't leave again."

He paused, caught off guard by the woman standing in the doorway. He turned to find her holding Judith, both sets of wide blue eyes focused on him. It was kind of eerie, the way they watched him, their minds running on the same wavelength. He imagined the guilt he felt was shared by Rick, who had surrendered his kid to Carol for the duration of their mission. He walked over to them, kissed Carol's cheek, and brushed Judith's wild, dark hair back – it was as soft as down feathers. "I have to," he murmured. "I don't want anyone to die down there. It doesn't matter what happens – trust me, I'm coming back. I swear."

She smiled softly, holding onto his upper arm, staring at him like this was the last time she'd ever see him. He chose to work through her pointless sadness, ducking down beside her so that Judith couldn't see him. She peered around and he moved, provoking giggles. Dave came by while the game was going on, moving to sit on the bed. "Don't worry about a thing, my friend," he said to Daryl. "I'll be watching over these two, and you watch my brother."

"You could always come," Daryl pointed out, rising and approaching his large friend, who made his bed look like it belonged in a dollhouse. When Dave shrugged, he crouched. "You could be in my group; me, you, Glenn, Sasha, and the new guy."

Dave chuckled. "His name is Asante, and he comes from Nigeria."

"But he's white."

Carol laughed. "There are white people in Africa, Daryl."

"Since when?"

"It matters little now," Dave said, standing and putting his hands on Daryl's shoulders. "I just want you to come home safely, and to bring everyone home safely with you. It hurts my heart to see these people leave our home, but I know that this is what they must do."

"Still want those sheep?"

"Yes, friend. I will have trouble sleeping until my brother has returned."

"I know the feeling."


	29. Descent

**The Walking Dead (4x02) is new tonight! Be sure to watch!**

XxX

Daryl crouched beside the solid iron hatch he'd pried open a few days earlier, his eyes flickering over the small opening. Steps fell away into blackness; sunless, windless, noiseless. It was only mid-afternoon, and yet the bunker was as black as pitch, and much colder than he remembered. He dreaded going back inside, breathing that stuffy, rotting air, hearing moans echo in every direction. He could hardly remember which way he'd gone with Michonne; panic and blood came to mind, followed by a short separation, and then the hangar that they'd escaped from. He could remember flashlights bobbing, the sound of the dead approaching, and a thousand tunnels that ended in locked doors. He told himself that it wouldn't be that way this time, but he could barely believe his own thoughts. Fear was the product of darkness, and no amount of bravery could pull them through this journey without a few girly screams.

The rest of the group members sat around, also keeping their thoughts to themselves. They were sharing a last meal before going inside, munching on cereal bars, scooping pickles out of the jar with their fingers, passing around a flask full of bourbon. Merle was still pacing, staying true to the hobby he'd developed at the prison. Rick and Maggie were sitting near Daryl, offering him some of whatever they were eating. He declined, but Rick held out a section of a chocolate bar until he accepted it. His least favorite survivor, Marcus, kept his distance, observing the horizon, twirling a piece of cloth in his hands. Sasha was comforting John, who was in the middle of admitting he'd never been fond of the dark, and Michonne was on the other side of the hatch, one hand on the ground to balance her, watching Merle pace with a sloping frown on her face.

When Rick started reorganizing his pack, everyone became anxious and got a little closer to the hatch, expecting his order to begin the journey into the earth. He finished, looked around, met every set of eyes, and then looked at the hatch and sighed. "At the split in the bottom, take your group left," he told Daryl. "We'll go right."

Rick, Marcus, and John went first, tailed by Merle, who would be watching their backs. He looked back at Daryl, concern and doubt flashing in his eyes, and then descended the steps, vanishing within moments. Swallowed up. Their flashlights blinked to life moments before they hit the bottom. Their rough breathing echoed up to Daryl's ears. He saw a flicker of fear in the half-light, and then they were all gone, disappearing to the right, his view blocked by solid metal walls. He rose and looked at the people who had stayed with him.

He trusted Maggie, Sasha, and Michonne (who'd decided Daryl needed a little extra muscle in his group), three women who were combat-tested, level-headed, and beyond brave, but he didn't know the man who stood before him, who'd accidentally put a bullet in Carol's arm the day he arrived at the prison. He was young, strong, and watched Daryl with wide, keen eyes, but there was nothing physical about trust. He would have to earn it.

"I'll lead. Michonne, take the back. Asante, behind me."

He took a deep breath and then started walking, taking the steps slowly until he could see nothing. He already had his flashlight in his hand. He hit the bottom and turned left, shining his beam down the hall and groaning when he found it to be lined with doors, each of them wide open. To avoid weaknesses further along the line, and the keep a clear escape route, they'd have to check every room and kill whatever they found. It would be a long day.

One room at a time they moved down the hallway, and through a dozen more hallways with long, bloodstained carpets on the floors and reflective metal walls. Walkers had congregated in a particularly large meeting room in the tenth hallway – the sign above the entrance had read 'Research 42E.' While creeping along the wall, Sasha had tripped and banged up her knee, warning the walkers of their presence and making the group look like quite an entrée. Fighting out of that had cost them time and energy that slowed them down. According to Daryl's watch, it was two hours later that they finally came upon the staircase, completely shrouded in blackness, filled with a strange wind that flowed upward.

They traversed three floors, each of which had the same basic layout and a low population of walkers. Daryl deduced a lot from the papers he examined, finding out that this was some sort of military installment that employed petty officers in the Navy, military police, and black ops marines, most of which were labeled according to their intelligence and skillset. He stuffed some of the notes and journals into his backpack to give to Hershel, who'd make sense of what he'd only skimmed. It was the fourth floor that held more than research reports and personnel files.

"Research and Development," Maggie murmured, stepping out of the stairwell at his shoulder. She was followed quickly by Sasha, who was still nursing her knee, and Asante, who had the biggest flashlight, a handheld floodlight, in his right hand. Michonne came in last, stopping at Daryl's shoulder, her hand on the hilt of her sword.

Daryl drew in a breath. He was almost used to seeing death after spending so long in its presence, after watching people he liked get their faces beat in, after watching their eyes fog up and fill with hunger. It was hard to faze him now that he rolled in it every day, but the fourth floor down, in the heart of the bunker, the one that produced the worst scent, managed to unnerve him in a way he'd never experienced. It was like standing outside of Atlanta that night so long ago, shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother, their faces lit by the fires of Georgia's capital. It was the same feeling he had when planes soared overhead, dropping bombs on innocents and walkers alike, extinguishing life, producing more walkers than they destroyed.

He cleared his throat, realizing that Maggie, Sasha, Asante, and Michonne were staring at him. He directed them to the wall, which they hugged for a while until they found a door. This floor was circular, leading them around within ten minutes, and it had been cleared of walkers before their arrival. He sent his group to the stairs and stood there a moment with the floodlight, staring at the massive pile of bodies in the center of the room. At least forty people, none of them walkers.

XxX

The first break was scheduled for ten at night, six hours after they'd left the prison, but Daryl kept his group going until midnight with the intention of making up for lost time. They finally hunkered down in a storage room with no windows and only one door. It was a close fit, everyone knee-to-knee, exhausted eyes and heavy breaths, but it was enough for Sasha and Asante to fall asleep within minutes. Maggie spent a little more time in the waking world, chewing on a small piece of jerky, but she was soon sleeping with her head on Sasha's shoulder.

Daryl and Michonne were across from each other, their knees touching, blocking the doorway with their bodies. A small, glowing orb, one of only two available at the prison, rested between Daryl's feet. It illuminated their faces, the bottom of the door, and the bodies of their companions, but most of the room was left in shadow.

"I hate this place," Michonne whispered, her eyes on her hands. She flicked dried blood from her knuckles, her eyes narrowed, her expression somber. "We haven't found anything useful yet. We should just leave, while everyone is still alive."

He brushed some dust from his hair, his eyes on her face. He wished she wasn't so serious about leaving. He needed someone to convince him to go through with this. "We can't. Those people in there… those bodies… they were killed a while ago, and with that many people living underground, there has to be a food supply somewhere. If we can get our hands on it, we can last the rest of the winter without leaving the prison."

"If we get _back_."

"We've been fine so far."

"Listen, all those walkers are coming from somewhere," she sat up, staring at him intently. "My best guess: they're moving up from down _there_." She unzipped her bag, handing him a small, complicated diagram. "From what I can see, this place goes down ten more levels, and the bottom is organized like a beehive – like they were keeping walkers down there."

"How many?"

"Hundreds."

"Well then, we got work to do."

XxX

Level ten, the first step on their way to the very bottom, was completely overrun with walkers. Though instinct told him to run in the other direction and seek cover, Daryl ordered his group to move through this floor as they had the others, killing one walker at a time until they were overwhelmed near the back. He regretted his decision as they locked themselves in a small room filled with rotting bodies; walkers threw themselves against the door, groaning excitedly, and the group hurried to wipe the blood from the sharp edges of their blades. Michonne worked on the rifle laying across Daryl's back, loading rounds until no more would fit, testing the trigger with the cartridge in her hand. She patted his back, stepped to his side, pressed her face to the crack of the door, and then drew back, breathing quickly.

"We'll die in here," Asante said in a low voice, his chest heaving with anxious breaths, his hands trembling as he held onto Daryl's shoulders. Sasha tried to comfort him and he jerked away, peeking outside like Michonne had and then drawing back again, his body shaking. "We'll die in here and I'll never see my baby again. Oh God, Efia, oh God, I'm so sorry. _God_."

Daryl pressed himself against the door, resting his forehead on the cold metal. He could hear the dead groaning in his ears, sensing his body, waiting to bite into his flesh. "Calm down. Just listen… just breathe… can you do that?"

He became quiet, still whimpering.

"Where are you from?"

"W-w-why?"

"Just tell me."

"I was… I was born in Minna… Nigeria."

"And your daughter?"

"She was born there, but her mother is American."

"How'd you meet?"

Asante leaned against the wall, letting go of a large breath and laying his head back. He shut his eyes, his voice falling down an octave, almost restful now. "I spent most of my life in America; that's why I don't have the accent. She went to the same University as me. We dropped out when Efia was born. We were on vacation when Ellie went into labor – a month early."

"You'll see your little girl again," Daryl said. He looked at Maggie, who'd been staring at the door for quite some time, and touched her shoulder gently. She looked up, startled, and nodded, saying that she was fine. Sasha was waiting with a knife in her hands. Asante took the hint and pulled out his own knife. "I'm gonna open this door," Daryl told them, "And you're gonna fight for your lives. Think about your daughter. Think about those people back at the prison. Ready?"

He got three strong nods. They were determined to live through this. He wasn't so sure, but he didn't let it show, worried his fear would rub off on them. The more noise the walkers at the door made, the more gathered, attracted by the prospect of a meal. Soon there would be no escape. He gripped his knife, took a shaky breath, and clutched the doorknob with his other hand.

Michonne put her hand on his shoulder, nodding in encouragement. "You can do this. Remember whose waiting for you."

He twisted the knob and pulled as hard as he could.

The mob descended on them.


	30. Owen

Life went on in the absence of some of the group's strongest members. Those who remained were watched over by Glenn and Carl, who decided what would be built each day, set an early curfew, and spent their nights alone in opposing guard towers. In the prison, Carol continued to gather the kids for school in the morning, keeping them occupied, organizing games to test their minds and their bodies; she hoped they would be strong in both respects. Dave took to organizing physical labor indoors, dividing the clothing to be washed, making sure the dogs were fed, giving everyone time to take their shower for the night while making sure the reserves of pre-boiled water never ran out. Their temporary schedule, which had Carol walking back and forth during the afternoon delivering boards to the shed-builders, was more strenuous, but it still gave them free time, which allowed Carol to go on a few short walks with Hershel. He was trying out a new prosthetic provided by Elizabeth, whose father had lost a leg in a car accident – she made it out of pliable metal sheeting, an iron rod, plastic pieces, some sort of wire, and a few assorted parts that she'd spent a while tracking down. It suited him well.

Overall, their second day without seven group members went smoothly from sunup to early evening, at which time Carol found herself in the least-popular of all the cell blocks, A-block. Solitary confinement. It was a popular hangout for the kids, who turned the prison into a playground when their lessons were over. Today it was empty, and Hershel's metal steps echoed around them. His face was bright, and each time he stumbled he also chuckled, enjoying the effort, praising Elizabeth over and over again for her invention. He took a rest on the steps near one of the nurse's stations; Carol sat beside him and stared through the doorway, but that place hadn't been equipped with candles yet, so there was nothing but darkness and cool wind.

"I think this is gonna work," Hershel said, pulling the prosthetic off and groaning when his skin got some air. His stump was bright red and irritated, but he was grinning. "It's a little tight around the knee, but it'll do." He stretched his leg out. "Yes, it'll do."

She leaned her head against the bars, enjoying the cold on her forehead. The work she did that day wasn't hard, just busy-work, feeding boards to workers who would've otherwise had to climb out of what Rick so lovingly referred to as the 'pig pit.' It was a large rectangular hole in the ground, twenty feet long and ten feet wide, dug out in alternating shifts of three people, which would be half-covered. It was three about eight inches deep at the shallow end, sloping gently downward into the shaded section, which was almost four feet deep. It would keep the animals cool during the hot Georgia summers, and, with its own drainage system installed to feed water into the small pond dug out nearby, it would survive the vicious storms at the end of winter. Carol had volunteered to take on that task for the day, tired of watching Tyreese haul himself out of the pit and then roll back in with a board in his hand, sweating bullets despite the cold. She thought about him and the other workers while she sat there, wondering if they'd switched shifts by now, or if they'd decided to work until Glenn came down to send them inside.

She'd also spent the night tending to Judith, taking over for Beth, who'd worked the potato-shift earlier that morning and crashed earlier than usual. Her limbs ached, but Carol felt strong and happy, the good kind of exhausted. She would sleep well that night. When these thoughts had passed and she came full-circle to Hershel and his new limb, she said, "We can get Elizabeth to look at it. I'm sure she can loosen it a little." She looked over, smiling. "How's it feel to walk without those crutches?"

"It's the best feeling in the world." He hummed in his throat and started reattaching it, his eyes on the nurse's station. "What do you say we do a little exploring? I never went far with those damn crutches. Made my arms sore."

She stood, waiting for him and then steadying him when he was upright. She turned to head into the station, already reaching for the tiny flashlight on her hip, when she heard her favorite boy sprinting through the hall, squealing happily. He was pursued by his brother, who smiled and pretended he was going to catch him, flipping up the hood on his jacket and yelling, "I'm gonna get ya! You better run, Cane!"

They blew by Carol and Hershel and vanished into the darkness, which was impressive because Cane was typically fearful of the dark. Carol smiled at her company, feeling a familiar happiness bubble up in her heart. She never knew she would feel that again, not after everything they'd been through, but this place was like a safe haven. Cane had once been so afraid, so closed off, so vulnerable, and now he was a fire cracker who opened his thoughts to the people who'd managed to get close to him. And his brother had been a boy without happiness, cold and indifferent; now he was unfurling, becoming a child again. Hershel understood this change, and he put his hand on her shoulder in response to her smile, "Doesn't it just warm your heart?"

She nodded.

In the very next second, perhaps sooner, she heard Cane cry out in terror, and she heard Owen yelling something unintelligible. Her blood stilling in her veins, she looked at Hershel, "Get back to the cell block! Get help! _Go_!" and then she plunged straight into the blackness, ripping her flashlight from her side and scanning the area.

She couldn't tell which way they went. "Owen? _Owen_! Where are you! Say something!"

Another scream, followed by a crash and a blood-curdling cry of pain. She shot to the right, her flashlight beam jumping all over the place, her heart racing, shadows closing in on her mind. Were they dead already? Was she running to her own death? Why had she let them go into this dark place? Hadn't Glenn secured this area just days ago? What if the barricades were down? Did Hershel remember to close the doors between this block and the rest of the prison?

She slid to a stop at a fork in the hallway, almost running into the wall as she turned to the right again. She passed the room they were in, turned back, and ran into the door, which swung open with a loud clang. Light poured in from a barred window. She saw file cabinets, papers littering the ground, and blood splatter covering the walls. Fresh blood spatter.

Cane crashed into her immediately, whimpering and sobbing, his words inaudible through the desperate, pained cries of his brother. She pushed him off and went to Owen's side, her hands trembling as she tried to stop a vicious wound on his neck from bleeding. As soon as she touched him he released the knife, which was still lodged in the skull of the walker he'd killed, and put his hands over hers, trying to push her away. "_No_! Stop! It hurts! It hurts! _Please_ stop… _please_… please _don't_…" His words were broken by sobs.

She was also crying, realizing almost as soon as she'd seen him that he wasn't going to make it, realizing how small his neck was in her hands, how small his fingers were as they battled against her. He was so young, so weak, so afraid. Tears rolled down his face, mixing with the blood smeared all over him. His expression was contorted in agony, his mouth open with his screaming, his eyes dilated with fear and useless adrenaline.

Moments later his screaming brought help. Glenn took one look at the situation and shouted behind him, ordering whoever came next to take the boys back to C-block. He took off down the hall to find the breach. Jackson was the one who made it to her side first. He was young, as well, and inexperienced. He looked at the boys with wide, scared eyes and then looked at Carol as if she was in the state to tell him what to do. He was followed quickly by Elizabeth, who told him to grab Cane and get back to C-block as quickly as possible. She put her arm around Carol and held her for a moment, gazing at the boy who was doomed to die, and then she helped Carol pick him up, holding him gingerly. Together they carried him to his father's bunk and lay him down among the sheets; Carol watched the white turn swiftly to scarlet.

She sat against the wall, Owen's upper body in her arms, his head against her neck. Hershel had padded the wound and stopped the bleeding, giving the boy something to ease the pain. His screams faded into whimpers. Both of his hands were wrapped around Carol's, his legs straight out, jerking when a wave of pain went through him. He sniffled, breathing heavily, tears still pouring down his cheeks.

"You did good," she murmured to him, unintentionally drawing a sob from herself. Those that remained in the prison stood in the doorway or lingered in the hall, aware of what was happening, standing respectfully with their eyes on the ground. Support in the form of a wall of sad faces. "You did so good," she went on, pressing her face into his hair, squeezing his hand. "Your dad would be so proud of you."

The boy shivered. He moved closer to her, his eyes shut tightly. "I-Is Cane okay?" His voice showed the damage done to his throat. He sounded so quiet, so weak, like he'd already died and this was just a whisper of what had been on his mind.

"He's fine," she assured him, stroking the tears from his face. "He's gonna be fine."

"Mom said that when you die… you have to say a prayer," he whispered, his eyes finally opening. His legs jolted again and he began to bleed through the bandage, but he barely noticed. He was too far gone. "I only know one…"

She kissed his head, taking a shaky breath. "I'll say it with you."

"Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…" He paused, coughed, and leaned his head into her neck, his glazed eyes focusing on the ceiling. "I shall fear no evil." He blinked once, twice, three times. "I will… dwell in the house of the Lord forever."

She pressed one hand to her face to contain a sob, stroking the back of his hand with her thumb, feeling a surge of grief starting in her heart.

"I-Is that right?" he asked.

"Yeah… that's right. That's right, sweetheart."

He drew in a breath, shuddered, and then the glaze of his eyes deepened. She felt his breathing stop, his body still warm, but lifeless. A few more tears rolled down his face, latent, but powerful. That last breath, the one he'd held onto for the longest time, slipped from his lips and he was gone like a wisp of smoke, snuffed out by someone's carelessness, or someone's malicious intent.

She sat with him for a while, paying no mind to the dispersing crowd, the wet faces that offered their condolences, the stunned children who had been kept far away from the cell door. Eventually Glenn came back and sat beside her, his hands over his face, deep, dark thoughts passing through his mind. He was joined by Tyreese, who sat beside her and put his arm around her, whispering something about the boy's father. He also said that he needed to take him.

She nodded, swallowing her grief, and let Tyreese take Owen from her arms. She was left bloodstained, shivering, and Glenn guided her from the bed to the dining room, where Beth and Elizabeth waited to escort her to the showers. Carol was in a state of shock, or some sort of functional catatonia, allowing her to think, but making her wade through quicksand to reach the real world again. She felt the cold water on her skin, the rags wiping blood from her body, scrubbing it from her hands, and the new set of clothes. Warm. She kept imagining Tyreese driving a knife through the eleven-year-old's skull, burying him in the cold ground, leaving him there with his eyelids shut, his little hands folded over his chest. That thought went with her back to the cell block, back to her room, where Jackson was trying his hardest to keep a shrieking three-year-old in the room. They took one look at each other and started crying.

She sat on the bed, catching him in an embrace, letting him sob and scream on her shoulder. She knew from his behavior that he'd been told about his brother's death, and he was demanding to see him, not understanding the finality of that word. Death. It was so hard to imagine it applied to a child. As unreal as it had been for her to lose Sophia, she could imagine what he was going through, and she let him run through the stages of grief for several hours until he finally cried himself to sleep.

Ten minutes before midnight, Glenn appeared at her door, waiting silently for her to place Cane on the bed and tuck him in. She hauled herself up, aware of the strain she was putting on her baby, feeling so much in such a short time, and walked out with him. He led her to the dining room and they sat together – Tyreese, Carl, Dave, Hershel, Karen, Diane, Rosemary, and Asher sat at the tables, some of them accompanied by their young children, who couldn't be left alone at a time like this. Gloria and Elizabeth were just walking out with Beth, and they all stopped to touch Carol's shoulder as they passed her, smiling sympathetically.

Glenn summoned the attention of the group and leaned against the wall, his hand on his neck – a nervous habit of his. He stared at them all, appearing both sad and anxious. "We lost a kid today. He was just playing near A-block and he ran into a walker. How does that happen?" he pushed off of the wall, pacing around the tables as he spoke. "Someone… someone broke the barricade I set up to keep walkers out. They used an axe to break the lock, and left it right there for me to find." He paused, meeting each set of eyes. "Whoever did it, I hope you're happy. He was eleven." He jerked toward the wall, grabbed a mop, and broke it against the wall. The wood shattered. Everyone flinched. "He was _eleven_!" he roared.

Every set of eyes was solemn. No one seemed guilty enough to have done something so horrible. He dismissed the meeting with a wave of his hand, obviously losing control of himself, and went back to Carol. They sat at one of the tables together, looking in different directions.

"I'm sorry," Glenn murmured after a moment's thought, reaching out, squeezing her hand, and then drawing back. He ran his hands over his face, trying to contain his own feelings.

She just shook her head, sniffling. "It wasn't your fault." Her eyes ventured to the door that led into the cell block. "Who would do something like that? Who would let walkers into the prison?" She paused as Carl reentered the room, his face serious. "Carl?"

He walked over to them, checked to see that no one was listening, and then leaned in to whisper, "I think I know who let the walkers in."


	31. Dangerous (and Character List)

Eight floors from the core of the bunker, light was non-existent, and even the powerful beams of military-issued flashlights couldn't penetrate the shadows clinging to every corner, filling every room, and clogging every hallway. With the depth, heat was expected, but all he got was cold that deepened with each step, stealing away his body heat, forcing his blood to work overtime to keep his mind buzzing with adrenaline. Merle could tolerate these things, and they even made him a better survivor, but he couldn't handle the _quiet_. Every open room was alive with whispers, the current of the wind flowing downward, the hiss of the earth contracting around the bunker. He spent his time listening to his small group exchange nearly inaudible words; he heard their soft, panicked breathing. It put him in a constant fight-or-flight state, never allowing his muscles to relax, never stopping the strain on his thoughts – was there a shadow moving in that doorway? Had he swept every room along that hall?

Even when Marcus, John, and Rick were holed up in a small office, getting as much sleep as they could before the two on his watch became a six, Merle wandered the block of halls they'd cleared, his mind and his blood racing. It was mostly offices, like the one they'd hunkered down in, filled with paperwork and overstuffed filing cabinets, but the material used to build this part of the bunker was more militaristic than anything, igniting his curiosity. Reflective walls built like double-sided mirrors, mimicking solar panels, and false windows drew him from room to room, and the ten-inch-thick panic doors hanging over every doorway like guillotines sparked something much deeper than wonder. Foreboding.

"This is your third go-round." Rick sat in the doorway of the break room, his feet touching the other side, a flashlight shining on his face as he spoke to Merle. He only turned it on when Merle made his way around the office block, and each time he'd nod, his hand on his gun, and remind him to watch his back. He looked much older this time. "You need to sleep. You can't stay alert if you're exhausted."

Merle shrugged and sat against the opposite wall, which only put him about four feet from Rick. His eyes were dry and his head ached. He was completely wiped of energy, but he couldn't imagine falling asleep, not in a dungeon so similar to the one in his nightmares. He was also thinking too much to drift away; he worried about his brother, who'd set out with a bunch of women who Merle didn't know too well, and who he didn't trust in the least bit. He'd already gone over the possibility of fighting his way across this bunker and backtracking until he found his brother, but the point was moot. He knew that it would be a suicide mission.

His mind impatient, he leaned a little to look into the office room, finding that Marcus and John hadn't laid their blankets too far from the door. He didn't trust them, either.

He didn't know much about John Anders other than the fact that he had three kids and he'd managed to keep them all alive until his arrival at the prison. He was in the air force, a pilot of small non-combat planes, and he didn't have a pair of balls to be spoken of. His wife ran his life. He was a pansy, not too bright, not too fit. He would be about as useful as a mule when they were inevitably jammed into a tight spot.

But the other man already had a place in Merle's mind, and that place was dark like the hallways of the bunker. His brother had it out for Marcus. He's done something to mess with Carol a while back, and it had pissed Daryl off enough to make him burn with rage every time he was close enough to get in a few swings. Naturally, Merle took on the same attitude, reserving trust, imparting judgment, catalyzing the other man's volatile temper. It was disturbing how similar Marcus was to Merle's father, and he'd allowed that similarity to breed anger in him; he had the urge to cause him harm, to use his strength and his skill to take the other man's life. It would be simple, quick, and beneficial to his brother, but he wouldn't do it.

He couldn't kill Marcus because his only real backup was Rick, and the two of them were on shaky terms as it was. As much as he'd changed, he wouldn't condone the murder of a group member, no matter how scummy he looked to Merle.

It was nice to know that Rick wouldn't kill him, that he'd use those skills he'd been honing to protect Daryl and keep Merle's niece or nephew safe and warm. He knew that this man in front of him would do anything to get back to the prison to be with his kids, and he saw the strength of his morality through the veil of insanity. He hadn't rediscovered it in full – he was still recovering from the loss of his wife, and each time he killed a walker, his eyes filled with black fire – but it was still vivid in him, so vivid that Merle had dropped his grudge, and he no longer baited the man. He knew enough to value the small amount of trust Rick put in him.

These things that ran through his mind kept him from sleeping or letting his guard down. He thought constantly of losing his place in the prison, of losing his baby brother to the bitterness that had separated them in every possible way. He was anxious about resisting his own temper, being strong enough to keep from putting John in a sleeper hold the next time he talked about his kids. None of these things came easily to him. He lived in a defensive state, unable to apologize, unable to let guilt for the things he'd done wash over him. He knew it was too late to reconcile with some of the group members back at the prison – he'd nearly beaten Glenn to _death_. He had his brother's trust, and Carol's trust, but he didn't know about Rick – what was this to him? What was it to sit across from each other and not have the urge to beat each other's faces in? Was that trust?

This was his most dominate thought as he turned on his flashlight and set the beam on Rick's chest. They both squinted into the light, having grown accustomed to the blackness. "Why couldn't I go with Daryl?" he wondered quietly. Rick waved a hand and he dropped the light, cutting it off. Every sound he made was as soft as he could manage, but his words still echoed around them, repeated a thousand times in these cold, dead hallways.

He heard Rick shifting. "Maggie's afraid of you."

He snickered, stopping suddenly when he realized the man was serious. He didn't remember doing anything personally to her, but he knew that Glenn blamed him for letting the Governor cop a feel. He still believed that wasn't his fault – how was he supposed to know he'd get touchy with her? "I don't know why," he said in response, trying and failing to wipe the smugness and sarcasm from his voice. He could never quite force it away. "I ain't touched her."

"Well, I didn't say I understood it. I guess some people just think you're dangerous."

"What do you think, _Rick_?" His name came out harsh as Merle found himself asking the question he'd been thinking about since entering these catacombs. "You think I'm a criminal? Think I got a score to settle with your group?"

Rick was silent for a while before he started digging in his backpack. Merle waited patiently, scraping blood from his flashlight, and then he jumped a little when something metal slid into his thigh. He picked it up, shined the light to see what it was, and then sighed, a smile spreading across his face. It wasn't a happy memory that came to mind, but a powerful one. Gunshots going off in the middle of the night, gunpowder igniting, flames licking the stars. "Where'd you get these?"

"Daryl found 'em on your bike. Thought I'd hold on to 'em for a while." He shifted again, zipping up his bag. "Forgot I had 'em until I looked through my bag last night."

"Why give them to me now?"

"I got to thinkin', how's a man like you get into the military in the first place? I figure there was something big going on for them to overlook your past. No, I don't know, but I can guess you weren't a model citizen." He chuckled, drawing a snort form Merle. "So what was it? War times? September eleventh? Iraq? Afghanistan?"

"No, dumbass, I look that young to you?" he closed the dog tags into one hand and drew the memory back to the front of his mind. "South Africa, bunch a' pirates bombin' Navy ships. Rode in on the _Patriot_, blew those assholes outta the water."

"But you left."

"Dishonorable discharge," he pronounced carefully, smiling to himself. "Sergeant got mouthy, had to put him in his place. Got me sixteen months a' three square meals and a roof over my head. What about you, sheriff? I know you were a _model citizen_ when we met, but you ain't wearin' that stupid cowboy outfit anymore."

"Yeah?"

"You ain't sheriff no more," he put the dog tags around his neck, clearing his throat. "You got a license to kill now, carryin' that pistol, deciding who's in and who's out. You let me in without a second thought, and I'm _dangerous_. What were you thinking?"

"I knew Daryl would want you here, and you did kill the Governor's men. You proved you were on our side, even if it's only because Daryl's on our side. That's good enough for me."

Silence.

"We'll meet up with the others eventually – these floors are getting smaller. Soon there won't be a north and south side."

Merle nodded, forgetting that Rick couldn't see him. He coughed and murmured, "Yeah, well wake me up when these pansies get done cuddling." He slid down the wall a bit, pulling his pack off of his back and using it as a pillow. A few moment of discomfort made him rip out the small blanket he'd packed and ball it up instead, ignoring the cold and focusing on the way the floor felt to his body. He's slept on worse.

Quiet filled the hall, leaving him to think about what had been said. He hadn't thought about his service in years, not like this. He pictured those ships buckling along the center, folding like wet paper as they filled with water and sunk to the bottom of the ocean. He wondered if anyone had survived out there, eating fish, avoiding walkers because the damn things weren't smart enough to swim. They would just sink to the bottom. And then he thought about the prison, about how homey it felt – he liked it more than his childhood home, more than his bunk on the _Patriot_, more than his bed in Woodbury. Rick was right. He _was_ on their side, even if he couldn't stand half of the people there. He just had to keep himself under control long enough to gain their trust, and from there he could try to mend the bridges he'd burned.

XxX

_**(Updated Character List)**_

**Survivors – In the Prison**

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**Cell Block C**

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**Rick Grimes** (second floor/with Judith) – thirty-six; tall, curly brown hair, bold appearance and voice; blue eyes; Caucasian; former sheriff's deputy; strong leader, fragile mind.

**Carl Grimes** (first floor/with Dave) – thirteen; lean, strong, long brown hair, vivid blue eyes; Caucasian; troubled, conflicted, often disobedient.

**Hope** (first floor/with Carl and Dave) – small white mixed breed dog, companion of Carl.

**Judith Grimes** (second floor/with Rick) – eight months; brown eyes, brown hair; Caucasian.

**Glenn Rhee** (second floor/with Maggie and Alex) – twenty-two; black hair, dark brown eyes; Korean; sometimes overly compassionate, but a fit leader.

**Maggie Greene** (second floor/with Glenn and Alex) – twenty-four; brown hair, pale blue-green eyes; slim build, steely personality; Caucasian.

**Beth Greene** (first floor/with Sasha) – seventeen; blonde hair, pale blue eyes; slim build, innocent, extremely motherly, believes in the good of everyone; Caucasian.

**Hershel Greene** (first floor) – fifty-six; white hair, old blue eyes; lean, muscular build; wise, moral, and philosophical personality; Caucasian.

**Michonne **(second floor/back corner) – thirty-two; lean, strong, predatory, decisive, compassionate, but often on edge, mistrustful, and elusive; strong bond with Daryl and Rick; black hair, dark brown eyes, dreadlocks; African-American.

**Merle Dixon** (second floor) – forty-five; tall, solid, strong, muscular build, rugged look; blue eyes, very short brown/gray hair; tends to catalyze fights, provoke others, insult, jeer, and otherwise degrade group members; protective of his brother; Caucasian.

**Daryl Dixon** (second floor/with Carol) – thirty-seven; distinct blue eyes, dark brown hair; lean, muscular build; sports a crossbow at all times; rough, sometimes abrasive personality, protective of young children, found companionship in the Doberman puppy Sugar; Caucasian.

**Carol Peletier** (second floor/with Daryl) – forty-two; gray-brown hair, blue eyes; thin build; motherly, compassionate, empathetic, gentle; pregnant with Daryl's child; Caucasian.

**Sugar** (second floor/with Daryl and Carol) – female Doberman puppy, pale brown in color; protective and possessive of Carol, companion to Daryl.

**Anita McLeod** (first floor) – seventy-two; dark gray hair, brown eyes; thin, fragile; can be abrasive, generally quiet and spends her time sewing or reading; Mexican-American.

**Dave Vorster** (first floor/with Carl) – forty-one; very tall, muscular, daunting military type; curly black hair cut short, dark brown eyes; gentle spirit, moral, wise; African immigrant.

**Marcus Vorster** (first floor/with Cane and Owen) – thirty-three; muscular ex-fighter, quick and strong; hazel eyes, black hair; can be very abrasive, especially toward Daryl, antagonizes other people, often described as a villain; father of Cane and Owen, though to have killed his wife; South African immigrant.

**Tyreese** (first floor/with Karen and Madeline) – thirty-four; tall, muscular, kind-faced man with a lumberjack beard; black hair, dark brown eyes; apologetic, understanding, empathetic personality; he is the father of Karen's baby, Madeline, and the brother of Sasha; African-American.

**Sasha** (first floor/with Beth) – twenty-six; lean and capable; black hair, dark brown eyes; kind-hearted, understanding, and brave; sister of Tyreese; African-American.

**Karen** (first floor/with Tyreese and Madeline) – thirty-five; lean and strong; dark brown hair, brown eyes; brave, moral, and typically very selfless after losing her son, Noah; mothered Tyreese's baby, Madeline. Caucasian.

**Madeline** (first floor/with Karen and Tyreese) – five months; dark brown hair, beige skin, gray eyes.

**Alex** (second floor/with Maggie and Glenn) – seven months; dark brown hair, brown eyes. Mixed-race, possibly Latino.

**Cane** (first floor/with Marcus and Owen) – three; tiny, underdeveloped, crooked smile, tightly curled black hair, deep brown eyes; semi-mute; son of Marcus, brother of Owen; pale brown skin, mixed-race.

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**Cell Block D**

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**Asante **(second floor/with Efia) – twenties; tall, lumberjack-type beard, shaggy blonde hair, blue eyes; strong-hearted, clever, forms a fast friendship with Daryl; former big-game hunter; Caucasian Nigerian immigrant possessing no audible accent; father of Efia.

**Efia** (second floor/with Asante)– three; skinny, long blonde hair, blue eyes, fair-skinned; brave, sassy, outgoing, extremely attached to her father; Caucasian Nigerian immigrant possessing no audible accent; daughter of Asante.

**Aiden** (second floor/with Kylie) – fifteen; orphan, mother died shortly after being taken in, sibling of Kylie; small, thin, lanky kid, freckles, curly brown hair, brown eyes; Caucasian.

**Kylie** (second floor/with Aiden) – twelve; orphan, mother died shortly after being taken in, sibling of Aiden; tough, tomboyish, short, spikey brown hair, bright brown eyes; Caucasian.

**Diane Anders** (first floor/with John and Richard) – thirty-eight; married to John Anders, mother of Sam, Dana, and Richard; black hair, blue eyes; fierce fighter and defender, former U.S. marine; moral, mostly understanding, strict mother; mixed race, pale beige skin, visibly Mexican.

**John Anders** (first floor/with Diane and Richard) – thirty-seven; married to Diane Anders, father of Sam, Dana, and Richard; black hair, brown eyes; former air force pilot; quiet, obedient, but opinionated; Caucasian, of Irish descent.

**Richard Anders** (first floor/with John and Diane) – four; youngest son of Diane and John; jet-black hair and dark brown eyes; rambunctious, fearless, and energetic; mixed race, visibly dark-skinned.

**Sam Anders** (second floor/with Dana) – fourteen; twin sibling of Dana Anders; lean, quirky kid with knobby knees; sandy blonde hair, brown eyes; adventurous, but not very brave; mixed race, visibly Caucasian.

**Dana Anders** (second floor/with Sam) – fourteen; twin sibling of Sam Anders; lean, strong-jawed; long black hair, brown eyes; adventurous, brave, protective of her brother, very much like her mother as far as confidence and morality; mixed race, visibly Caucasian.

**Asher Donovan** (first floor/with Rosemary) – forty-five; married to Rosemary; father of Mason, Hannah, and Seth; big guy, muscular type; lost his son from another marriage, Colton; tall, strong, capable; obedient, fatherly, has a violent temper; Caucasian.

**Rosemary Donovan** (first floor/with Asher) – forty-seven; married to Asher; mother of Mason, Hannah, and Seth; small, plump build, friendly face; can be very abrasive, angry, and mean-spirited; Caucasian.

**Mason Donovan** (second floor) – fourteen; son of Asher and Rosemary; sibling of Hannah and Seth; lanky and awkward, but strong; brown hair, black eyes.

**Hannah Donovan** (first floor/with Seth) – ten; daughter of Asher and Rosemary; sibling of Mason and Seth; small girl, long brown hair, brown eyes; Caucasian.

**Seth Donovan** (first floor/with Hannah) – eight; son of Asher and Rosemary; sibling of Mason and Hannah; skinny, but strong-willed; black hair, blue eyes; Caucasian.

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**Cell Block E**

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**Gloria** (second floor) – forty-eight; plump, heart-faced; gray-blonde hair, blue eyes; kind-hearted, motherly, fiery at times; mother of Elizabeth; Caucasian.

**Elizabeth** (second floor) – twenty-four; tall, average; dark blonde hair, brown eyes; rebellious, quick-tempered, and sarcastic at times; received a doctoral degree in abnormal psychology, spent a year as a Navy psychiatrist; daughter of Gloria; Caucasian.

**Anna** (second floor/with Ian and Teagan) – forty-six; small, plump; dirty blonde hair, green eyes; spirited, happy, motherly, sometimes very frustrated; mother of Jackson, Ian, and Teagan.

**Jackson** (second floor) – twenty-six; son of Anna, elder sibling of Ian and Teagan; short, spikey brown hair, dark brown eyes; plump build, muscular arms; self-proclaimed geek, very intelligent, socially awkward, clever inventor; Caucasian, possibly Latino.

**Ian** (second floor/with Anna) – four; black-haired, blue-eyed; inquisitive, brave, and a handful.

**Teagan** (second floor/with Anna) – ten; black-haired, green-eyed; quiet, reserved, thoughtful.

**Alejandra** (second floor/with Eliza and Louis) – forty-seven.

**Louis Morales** (second floor/with Alejandra) – ten; short brown hair, brown eyes; cared for by Alejandra, sibling of Eliza; former group member, now reunited; Mexican-American.

**Eliza Morales** (second floor/with Alejandra) – twelve; short brown hair, brown eyes; cared for by Alejandra, sibling of Louis; former group member, now reunited; always carries a beaten doll that she once gave to Sophia; Mexican-American.

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**In the Yard**

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**Flame** – roan horse tamed by Michonne several miles from the prison; used in favor of a vehicle when short runs are to be made.

**Demon** – black horse found starving on an abandoned farm, brought back to full health and ridden by Daryl; tends to be temperamental with other riders.

**Nanny** – stunning black-and-beige horse of the Missouri fox trotter breed; pregnant, soon to foal; intelligent and affectionate.

**Red** – old red bloodhound found by Glenn, occupies the fields, sleeps in the courtyard or with the chickens, who are quite fond of him.

_0o0 XxX 0o0 XxX 0o0_

**Survivors – Outside the Prison**

**Philip Blake** (_The Governor_) – presumed alive.

**Caesar Martinez** – presumed alive.


	32. Sacrifice

He began to miss the cold as they plunged deeper into the labyrinth, which wove westward and then curved sharply to cut into hard, heated earth; he suspected that they'd gone over a mile into the ground, and the slanting pyramid structure of the bunker had taken them several miles from the point of entry. Five floors from the bottom, the hallways of reflective steel became lifeless stone, absorbing sound and the touch of their flashlights, forcing them into consuming blackness. They groped blindly through the halls, always touching one another, always aware of the person directly in front of and behind them. It went on like that for what seemed like days, the hours indistinguishable from the minutes, as they explored the world beneath the sun. Merle found that he knew his companions much better now, able to tell when one of them was panicking, when someone was afraid, or when someone was looking right at him without really seeing him. He knew their habits and their voices, and he was as accustomed to them as he could get without feeling the kindling of friendship. He still hated Marcus, and he still distrusted John, but he _knew_ them, and that would serve to keep them all alive.

"Merle, clear the room." Standing in the center of the hallway, his flashlight pointed uselessly into the shadowy doorway, Rick looked like a figment from a dream – spending so long in the dark made everything look unreal. He had John by the coat, preventing him from continuing down the hallway. Upon receiving a confused look from both John and Marcus, who'd obviously noticed the sign reading 'stairs' above the wide arch only ten feet ahead, he explained, "We don't skip anything – once we leave here, we're never coming back, so we have to get all the supplies we can. Get to the other door," he looked at Merle again, nodding. "We'll be there."

Nodding and shooting a taunting smile at Marcus, who stood against the wall with a scowl on his face, Merle plunged into the classic long-black-table meeting room. He headed straight for the sound of hungry groaning, sweeping his blade and his flashlight to keep an eye on the walkers. He stabbed one through the jaw and flung it into a group, increasing the speed of his walk to keep out of their grasp. He counted at least a dozen distinct voices coming from all over the room, following him like lambs to the slaughter.

At the opposite door he dove into the ranks of his group, yanking his combat knife from his belt and steadying his breath while he had a chance. Rick, John, and Marcus charged the walkers, dealing efficient death blows that lowered the risk of being bitten. Merle stepped back into the front line to kill a few on Rick's right side, cutting the head off of the last one just because he could. He kicked it into the far corner and cringed when it ricocheted off of piles of folders and book-ends, making a racket that was sure to attract any walkers left wandering the halls. The group stayed alert for several minutes, waiting in the doorway, weapons raised, flashlights strapped to their belts to highlight only their faces. When it was clear that the danger was gone, Merle jogged to the door he'd entered through and shut it, combing over the room to find something useful.

What he found was much more than useful – it was practically life-saving. He shut the other door, turned on the spotlight, and placed a pile of dehydrated meals in the center of the table, his stomach growling at the thought of digging into one of them. The others gathered, their eyes hungry, and Rick began to set up a fire right there in the conference room. Merle sat nearby and warmed his hands while they waited for the water to boil, having already chosen his meal out of the three types offered – he would eat the beans, rice, and potatoes, snagging some of Rick's rehydrated meat in exchange for a good portion of the beans.

He had it all worked out in his head, but the vegetables weren't as sweet as he imagined them, and the exchange he made with Rick was like trading cardboard with a little ketchup on it for plain cardboard. It did little to fill his stomach, but it was warm, and it did his mind some good. It was decided that they would spend the night in this little room, so the fire was moved to the floor near the other door, which was closed for safety. Merle kept it going with papers and shreds of boxes he found around the room, and he even added several boxes of number two pencils, which left the graphite behind when they combusted. He let Rick take second shift, preferring to sit up with the fire for as long as he could. He didn't want to move from the position he was in, so warm and relaxed in the corner; lying down would make him chilly again. He was tired of being cold.

His watch read two in the afternoon when Rick sat up and stretched, his eyes red, his curly hair sticking up in all directions. He greeted Merle, took a walk around the room, and then warmed his hands by the fire, taking several long, deep breaths to chase away his dreams.

"_Life_," Rick murmured, sighing. "I don't like the looks of this place. This project they were doing with the walkers – _life_ – do you think they could've caused this?"

Merle shrugged. "Far as I can tell, it happened everywhere at once."

"Here, I found this in that cabinet over there." He handed over a binder, flipping it to the third page once Merle had his hands on it. He jabbed at a sentence that began the introductory paragraph, not reading it, but reciting it from memory. "In order to preserve humankind, Project Life must commence immediately. The integrity of our future relies on it." He sat back, snorting bitterly, "It's dated just a few weeks before this all began."

Instead of responding, Merle began reading the essays contained in the binder, not at all surprised by the scientific mumbo-jumbo he found there. It was the same as it had been on every level – walkers were the product of a disease that could be cured; oh, wait, they were created by a super-virus that spread through the world's oceans; no, they're dead, and they can never come back. If only he had a steak for every time these people changed their minds. The last essay was the one that struck him the most. It was a concrete assessment of the research they'd done so far, marked over, bloodstained, and torn, but mostly legible. The concluding paragraph was handwritten in fine black ink, scribed by a shaky hand; he read it aloud in his head, finding that the people in this bunker had come to the same conclusion as the rest of the survivors.

_There is no cure. There is no hope. May God have mercy on our souls._

XxX

When night fell on the world above them, Merle's group was just beginning to stir, shaking off the cold and soreness of the previous day to greet another. Though he was offered a dehydrated meal, Merle opted to munch on an off-brand cereal bar and wait impatiently by the door, his ears peeled for the tell-tale sound of walkers dragging themselves down the hallway. He also listened to John and Marcus chat about their kids, finding similarities in their lives and becoming closer because of it. It was enough to make Merle vomit. He tried to turn and say something rude to get them to shut up, but a sound in the hallway caught his attention. Movement.

He whistled and slid back into the room, pressing himself to the inside of the doorframe. John and Marcus hauled ass to the opposite side and did the same. Rick calmly readied his knife and waited in plain sight, acting as bait for whatever had caught their scent.

They waited for what seemed like ten solid minutes, their breathing evening out, their eyes darting to other members of the group. Merle considered stepping out with Rick, but his training told him to stay exactly where he was, always ready for the worst-case scenario.

Finally he heard a harsh whisper from the hallway, a voice that could never be mistaken for a walker. Rick relaxed and whistled just like Merle had, waiting a moment and then hissing, "Michonne? Daryl? It's us."

The Katana-wielding woman who, for the first time in Merle's life, was a sight for sore eyes, came strolling out of the shadows, her sword in her hand, a smile on her face. She walked straight to Rick and placed her hand on his shoulder, giving the others a nod, and passing a wry smile to Merle, who returned it with one eyebrow cocked. She was followed by Maggie, who appeared a little bruised and disoriented, and Sasha, who bounced a little upon seeing the group.

Merle waited, but the hallway was empty.

Michonne looked at him, the dim flame of grief in her eyes, and murmured, "I'm so sorry… he… he wouldn't… I tried to make him come with us."

The atmosphere of the room changed completely. His mind went to a place that it had gone to before, a place with no hope, no faith, and no love. After joining the Governor in Woodbury, Merle had tried to accept that his brother was dead, that the kid he'd practically raised was either dragging himself around with those cold, dead eyes, or shot through the head, put down like a sick dog. He'd never believed it. He didn't believe it now, hearing those broken words from Michonne's mouth, trying to understand what could've brought down a man as tough as Daryl – he had nothing. His mind was blank. Blank. Empty. Lightless.

Rick spoke first, holding a flame to the gasoline in Merle's gut. "No… no, that's not…" he put a hand on Merle's shoulder for comfort, "I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"

Merle jerked away so quickly that he stumbled into the doorframe. He felt the fire consuming his body, bottled emotion that could only be assessed when he was so badly shocked, when he was faced with something so crippling. He thought he might've been crying by the way his voice sounded, so weak in his own ears, riddled with grief and loss. "He's not dead. I'm… I'm gonna go get him. You just go on without us. We'll catch up."

"Merle, you shouldn't-"

"Did you see him die?" Merle demanded suddenly, grabbing Michonne by the shoulders and holding her in the doorway. She stared at him, shocked by the ferocity of his voice, and he shook her as if he could get the answer to roll out of her gaping mouth. "Did you see him get bit? Did you see him die? What happened?"

"We were surrounded. He distracted them. He was running in the other direction – I tried to go back but I couldn't find him. There were so many. There's no way he-"

"But there's a chance," Rick intervened, peeling Merle's hands off of Michonne and pushing him backwards. He turned to her, his voice a gentle contrast to the storm in Merle's mind. "Which way did he go? I'm going with Merle to get him. You guys keep moving, don't get cornered."

Motioning to the hallway beyond the staircase, Michonne gave Rick a solid nod. She didn't seem to believe his words. Merle saw it as pity. She noticed him scowling and looked over, her eyebrows pulling down with sympathy. "I hope you find him. He's my friend."

He swallowed his anger, which was a byproduct of grief, and began down the hallway, shrugging his backpack on as he walked. He was followed quickly by Rick, who had to jog to keep up with his brisk walk, and Marcus, who claimed he would be useful if they ran into a group. Merle didn't care. He couldn't stop thinking about his brother's face rotting away, his eyes an unnatural shade of blue, his body lurching around with nothing but a few electrical surges to move his muscles. He couldn't stop picturing his brother dead. He didn't know what he would do.

_You can't leave me now, Daryl. I just found you again._

XxX

"How can you be sure?"

Glenn, Carol, Hershel, and Tyreese sat in the far corner of the yard with Carl pacing in front of them, his hand resting reflexively on the hilt of his gun. Eliza sat with Carol, cuddled into her side, her eyes wet with tears. It was Glenn's words, spoken with haste and a touch of aggression, that triggered tears in the little girl, and it was those tears, and the fact that three more barriers had been broken since Owen's death, that made Carl pace like a nervous racehorse.

Carol put her arm tightly around the little girl, planting a kiss on the top of her head, and whispered, "It's alright sweetheart. We're just not sure about anything right now. Can you tell us what you saw again? You're not gonna get in trouble."

"B-B-But I love her," Eliza sobbed, hiding her face in Carol's shirt. Those present exchanged concerned glances; Hershel scooted closer and rubbed the girl's back, murmuring words of encouragement and comfort. She looked up at him, her glassy eyes indecisive, and then she looked straight at Carol. "I saw my auntie leaving the hallway near A-block… with a hammer. I asked her what she was doing and she wouldn't tell me." She sniffled, took a deep breath, and then started crying again, consoled by those around her. Even Glenn stood and stroked some of the tears from her face, sympathy painting his expression.

Carl approached and took Eliza by the hand. "I'll take her back to E." Receiving a nod of approval from the adults, he led the girl across the silent courtyard, opening the door for her and ushering her inside. He looked back before he stepped through, his expression hard and cold.

"Why would Alejandra sabotage the cell blocks?" Hershel defended as soon as the door shut behind the kids. He was shaking his head, clearly unsettled by this news. "We've shown her nothing but kindness, and she's such a sweet woman. She loves those kids. Why would she put them in danger?"

Glenn shrugged, "It's not our job to find out _why_, we just need to stop it from happening again. Owen's dead, Asher's dead – who's next? Judith? Carl? _Eliza_?" He looked Hershel in the eye, seeming to regret his words before he said them. "I think of you like a father, but we can't risk our people dying; we have to deal with this."

"What are you suggesting?" Hershel demanded, "A public hanging? Maybe we can throw her outside and let the walkers eat her alive. Or you could just put a gun to her head and blow her brains out."

"That's not what-"

"I know damn well what you were thinking, Glenn."

"We can't just-"

"Enough," Carol snapped, putting an end to their heated argument. She looked between them, appalled by how quickly they'd turned against each other. "Listen to yourselves. We're not animals, and we're not barbarians. We can't just condemn someone without giving them a fair chance."

"Fine. We can lock her in a cell to keep her from doing it again and wait until the others get back. Let Rick and Daryl decide." Glenn crossed his arms over his chest, speaking matter-of-factly, but with a tinge of nervousness. It was understandable. He looked at Hershel and murmured, "I don't want to kill her, I just want this to stop. Everyone's afraid to leave their cells. It's like we're back out there. I want them to feel safe again."

"Condemning an innocent person would have the opposite effect."

Hershel stood and hobbled toward the door. He was followed by Tyreese, and then Glenn, who hung his head with deep thought. Carol remained to stare at the forest, her mind still full of panic from the attack earlier that morning. Three walkers just inches from the kids, reaching out and wishing to bite into their flesh. She could still hear Hannah screaming.

"Come back soon, Daryl," she murmured, her hand on her stomach. "We need you."


	33. Beaten

Daryl sat upright in a cold metal chair, his hands bound behind his back, a heavy hood over his face, and a putrid gag in his mouth, preventing him from swallowing the blood that rolled down his throat. He heard voices around him, felt the cool air as one of the three men who'd captured him walked by – he couldn't remember their faces, but he knew they were big guys with weapons. He didn't like the vibe he got from this room. They were discussing whether or not to kill him, wondering where he came from, how he was so well-fed, and why he had a gun and extra ammo. When he refused to answer them, even when struck repeatedly in the face, chest and arms, they'd gagged him and decided to work it out on their own.

The hood was removed and the gag was pulled away. He choked, spitting out the blood that had pool in his mouth. He felt several drops running down his face, produced by a cut in his forehead, and a few long streams flowing down his arms from sores he'd acquired trying to flee the walkers. If he'd known he would be running straight into this, he would've let them bite him.

"We can't let you live," the leader of the small group said, standing in front of Daryl and shaking his head, his lips pressed together. He had his arms folded, his head angled downward. He was a bulky military type in camouflage army pants with several sets of dog tags around his neck – either friends who'd died, or people he'd killed. Daryl saw the same insanity in him that he'd seen in Tomas, and, as disturbing as that was, it was topped by the blood covering the walls of this room, bible verses painted with gobs of flesh and dripping scarlet. The other two didn't look capable of it; they actually looked submissive and afraid, extremely skinny, pale-skinned, milky-eyed, and jumpy. These things made the man's words carry a powerful resonance. Usually Daryl wasn't scared by death threats, but this was the darkest he'd ever received.

He stared back at the man, feigning confidence. "Do what you gotta do."

Smiling sinisterly, Arthur, as he called himself, drew a military-style blade from a sheath attached to his belt. It had deep, thin ridges that could've gut Daryl like a fish. He held it in his hands, checking its balance, and then his eyes flickered up to Daryl's and he added a bit more malice to his expression. "Well, I'll do what I gotta do, but I'll also do what I want to do. There's not much down here far as entertainment goes. You're the first new toy I've had since Maxie over there," he motioned to the smaller man, who couldn't have been more than twenty. "I'm not gonna kill you, redneck; I wanna hear you scream."

With those words he plunged the knife into Daryl's side. Vivid, white-hot pain raced through his mind, unhinging his jaw and forcing an agonized cry through his bloody throat. His body craned away from the touch of the metal. Tears sprung to his eyes. Arthur, enjoying the pain he'd caused, ripped the knife out and made the wound much worse. The shock brought black dots to Daryl's eyes and his breathing hitched; his heart pounded in his ears, pumping blood out of the gaping hole in his side. He didn't realize that his head had dropped until Arthur grabbed his face, his hands covered in Daryl's blood, and held it up, staring into his eyes. "Tell me who you're with and I'll end this right now."

Daryl pulled from his hands, disgusted, and worked his lips to let the blood in his mouth move down his chin. His side was beginning to numb, followed by his torso, and the unnatural emptiness of that part of his body made him extremely nauseas. As Arthur went in for another stab, Daryl vomited, provoking laughter. The knife pierced the skin on his chest and danced along his ribcage. He vomited again, his head spinning. Black dots became huge blotches of colorless matter. His hearing became funneled. His vision was blurred.

"Whoa, whoa, don't go passing out on me just yet," Arthur murmured, his voice a thousand miles away. He drew Daryl's face up again, splashing cold water on it. He was startled into consciousness, gasping for a breath that wasn't choking with blood. He felt the knife sliding along his side, jumping over the wound and moving down his hip until he imagined his body was about to come undone. He slipped away again, overcome with blackness, and then he felt Arthur slapping his face, demanding that he wake up. He groaned, his head lolling whichever way the man's hands willed it, and tried to open his eyes.

This went on for nearly an hour. Daryl faded in and out of the room, awakening to worse pain each time he let his eyes close. At some point he couldn't keep them open anymore, too consumed by loss of blood, dehydration, and shock. He was awakened a few minutes later and water was poured down his throat. He choked on it and vomited again, though he had nothing but acid to dispel. Arthur stopped using the knife and switched to safety pins, igniting Daryl's nerves with short, quick stabs, making his muscles jump. He almost considered asking for the knife again if only to stop the strange new pain of the pins.

"You're resilient, I'll give you that." Arthur set his pin down and circled Daryl's chair, popping him on the head whenever the urge came to him. He had a smile on his face. "What, you got military training? What branch?"

"Marines," Daryl lied, spitting out blood as he spoke. He cringed when he was struck again, this time in the temple. It deepened his migraine.

The other man nodded and crouched in front of him. "Liar," he whispered, reaching up to lift Daryl's shirt. He touched the wound, making Daryl jump from the sudden fiery pain. "Liar, liar, pants on fire. I don't take kindly to that. I served six tours – gave everything for this country. You're just a sack of hillbilly shit."

"I'm not the one torturing you," Daryl growled.

He regretted it immediately. Arthur stood and kicked his chair over, leaving him lying flat on the ground, his hands mashed in a painful position, a bright ass light shining in his face. The blood gathered at the back of his throat, forcing him to gag, driving more scarlet onto the concrete. He leaned over Daryl, his face the definition of cruel, and whispered, "The world has changed. If you wanna be treated fair, you better pray them pearly gates are open to white trash."

"He doesn't have to. He's got me."

Bullets. Daryl was too lethargic to understand what was going on around him. The light above his head was blinding, obscuring everything else in the room. He heard bullets ricocheting all around him, and he could've sworn he heard his brother's voice just then, as sarcastic and arrogant as he remembered him. Arthur moved away, vanishing into those shadowy areas of Daryl's vision, and he heard several thuds. Some were dead. Was he dead?

His chair was moved out of the harsh light and into another room. The door behind him was shut. He struggled, finding a bit of adrenaline despite his condition, and found that he was being untied. Flashlights flared up all around and he heard the voices of Rick and Merle.

"Marcus was shot in the head, I saw him go down," Rick said, his words rushed. "Was that all of them? _Shit_. Walkers. Daryl, we gotta get you outta here. You're gonna have to help us out a little. Can you hear me? _Daryl_?"

He turned his head toward Rick, nodding the best he could. He felt that his eyes were swelling shut. He was picked off of the ground and dragged along a dark hallway. He could hear Rick and his brother breathing heavily, and from the way their flashlights swept the ground, he could see a blood trail that wasn't his own. "Are you shot?" he asked, though he wasn't sure if his words came out right. He couldn't feel his tongue.

"No, it's theirs," Rick answered immediately.

"Hold on, we're almost there," Merle said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. He kept looking back at Daryl, an indecipherable expression on his face. From that look, Daryl could tell he was bad off. He knew he was mortally wounded, bleeding out with every step, leaving a fresh trail for the walkers to follow.

He could already feel the cold flowing up his limbs, grasping his heart, much more potent than the air around him. The shadows in his eyes deepened until he was fading in and out of consciousness again, unable to answer questions, incapable of gaging time, location, or direction. He felt his brother gently prodding him each time his eyes shut, threatening to kill him if he died, asking him to draw certain memories to the front of his mind and describe them aloud. Eventually Daryl's chin touched his chest, his eyes shut, and he faded quickly from reality.

His life was hanging in the balance. He felt it in every dream.

XxX

Carol stood outside the cell that held Alejandra, her hand on the bars, her heart burning with sympathy for the woman who didn't understand what she'd done wrong. She'd been crying for a few hours now, overwhelmed by the accusation that she would sabotage the group – unable to help her protective instincts, Carol had kept her company, using Louis as a translator to tell her that no one was certain about what was happening. She wanted to comfort her, but in the back of her mind she kept thinking she was guilty of the proposed crime. Eliza wouldn't lie. She loved her aunt. But she also loved her friends in the prison. She knew the price of keeping them safe.

She approached the bars after sniffling through the last of her tissues. She looked exhausted and afraid, her body trembling from the cold, her hair a mess, her lip trembling. She wrapped her hand over Carol's and pressed her face into the metal, whispering something in Spanish. Louis, who had a firm grip on Carol's hand, looked up at her and said, "She says she didn't do it."

"I know," Carol responded softly, listening to her words echoed by Louis in Spanish. "There has to be someone who knows where you were, what you've been doing."

She shook her head, tears dripping to the floor.

Carol was about to respond when Glenn came down the hall, his expression indecisive. He looked at Alejandra and sighed, obviously regretting putting her in that cell. "Who could've done it if not her?" he stopped Louis from translating and crouched in front of him, his hands on the boy's shoulders. "Did you see your auntie do anything to the barricades?"

Louis stared at him like a deer caught in headlights, shaking his head reflexively. He looked away, though, and Carol saw guilt in his eyes. He was afraid of something, and it had nothing to do with the woman standing on the other side of the bars. She was filled with foreboding. "Louis?" she stroked his hair back, glancing between him, Glenn, and Alejandra. "Louis, what is it? You can tell me, sweetheart. I'm not gonna get mad at you. We just need to know."

"I-I-I can't."

Warding off the aggressive look adopted by Glenn, she took a different approach and hugged the little boy, wiping the tears from his cheeks. "Yes you can. Just tell me. Just tell me."

He looked up, his wide brown stare filled with anxiety. With his hand in Carol's, he drew her down to his level and pressed his lips to her ear, whispering, "Eliza."

Carol drew back, her breath catching. "Glenn… where is Eliza?"

"I don't know. She told Carl she wanted to be alone. You don't think…?"

"I do. We have to find her."


	34. Bitten

**Hey guys! Episode 4x03 of the Walking Dead came on tonight! Don't worry, I'm not gonna spoil it for those who haven't seen it yet, but I must say, it was pretty freaking epic. I'm loving this season so far – I have to admit, my favorite moment is when Carol called Daryl 'pookie.' I thought I was gonna die. Anyway, enjoy the chapter. Don't hesitate to review ;) I just winked at you. Wink back. **_**Please**_**.**

XxX

Daryl sat with his back against the wall of a cubicle four floors from the bottom of the bunker. His brother sat beside him, slowly drawing a needle and thread through the fine edges of his bloodiest wound – the one on his side, where that jagged knife had gone in. It had shredded his flesh, but, with efficiency and skill, his brother managed to stay the bleeding and get most of the dangling skin sewn back into place. It took four hours, most of which Daryl was completely conscious, and two bottles of first-aid antiseptic, which burned like fire. During this time the rest of the group wandered the area, standing guard, going through files, cleaning blood from their weapons. He kept a close eye on Michonne, who was bound and determined to go back to the place he'd been taken and make sure they'd killed everyone involved. He'd made the mistake of telling them he might've heard a fourth voice, maybe even a fifth, while he was only slightly conscious.

When the procedure was over and Merle collapsed beside him, his hands trembling from the concentration and precision of sewing wounds shut, the group gathered and it was decided that they'd continue downward. It would be too risky to try to navigate the upper levels, which were full of herds and obstacles, when Daryl was in such a condition. He could barely walk, his eyes were still foggy, and he would become dead weight if they were attacked. None of them had gone through medical school, but they all agreed that his wounds were no longer life-threatening, and that if they kept him safe, they could allow him some time to heal before making the final journey to the surface. He was fine with that idea. He didn't want to leave anyway.

Slowly, he was carried down the stairs to the third level from the bottom. He was left hanging on Merle's arm as his other support went to help break down a barricade left by the survivors who had previously come this way. Their corpses rotted on the steps.

"Marcus… he had them two boys in C, right?" Merle asked, his voice catching in his tired lungs. He let Daryl sink to the ground and began to check over his stitches. "First thing we gotta do is break it to them."

"Leave that to Carol," Maggie said over her shoulder, stumbling backwards when a board she'd been trying to pry off of the structure suddenly snapped in half. Merle rose and caught her before she could hit the wall, pushing her rather roughly back toward the barricade. She huffed, stared at him a moment, and then went back to work.

Merle curled his lip at the workers and crouched beside Daryl again, pulling one of Daryl's arms over both of his shoulders. He hauled him off of the ground and helped him lean against the wall, forcing him to sip from a canteen. Daryl felt feverish, though, judging by the sweat covering his companions, he wasn't the only one taking a little heat. This stairwell, which had been so cold in the upper levels, was becoming an oven as it tunneled further into the earth. He realized that the current flowing up there was produced by the air down here.

His brother constantly tapped his cheeks to keep him awake, dragging him back from the edge of a dream; it went on until the barrier had been cleared and the group could move on. At that point it was impossible not to keep his eyes open. He was being jostled, forcing his legs to pull him forward, leaning heavily on Merle while trying to access his own strength. Their flashlights caught the eyes of several herds, which forced them in different directions through the winding hallways. Michonne was almost bitten twice as she kept walkers off of Merle's back, her katana flashing in the unnatural light, blood spraying across the walls to cover what was already there.

At the end of a row of cubicles, they turned right and then scattered like roaches as a herd came upon them full force. Daryl felt his weight shifting as Merle dragged him across the floor; his feet kept coming out from under him, provoking strings of curses from his brother. John smashed into them from somewhere else, his flashlight spinning to the other side of the room, and they all went down in a tangled mess. He felt Michonne's hands groping at his shoulders, pulling him into a dark corner; he felt his stiches tearing, fresh blood pouring down his stomach.

"Stay here," she hissed at him, vanishing from his immediate vision. He heard the sound of metal tearing flesh, and then a deep groaning as more walkers were attracted to the sounds of battle.

It wasn't long before the scent of his blood drew the walkers toward him. He felt them coming closer and struck out with his fists, pushing them away, struggling to find his weapons. He didn't have them. The men who'd taken him captive had stripped him of his only defense. In a primal state of kill-or-be-killed, he put all of his energy into getting upright, and then he started shoving the walkers back one at a time, his muscles burning, blood beginning to gush down his thigh. One took hold of his forearm and he immediately reaching out to grab its skull, keeping its teeth away from his skin. It was too strong. He felt his grip slipping. He felt his hand giving in. He felt another coming closer to take a chunk out of his neck.

Michonne appeared again. He heard her sword sweep the air just inches from his outstretched fingers, bisecting the skull he'd been holding back. She kicked the other off and grabbed his arm, holding him upright and helping him limp through the blackness. The flashlight John had dropped was a checkpoint, and soon they were all hobbling in that direction, bumping into each other and reflexively trying to stab each other's eyes out. Michonne took the flashlight and scanned the room, pointing out the walkers that remained. Rick killed two, and Merle took care of another.

"Anybody bit?" Rick demanded as he approached them. He took the flashlight and shone it on everyone, examining their exposed skin. He stopped on John.

Everyone craned, even Daryl, whose head was spinning. He saw nothing wrong with the man at first; he was coated in the usual amount of guts and gore, out of breath, still as tense as a rabbit. He almost asked what was so interesting when John turned his arm over. The group took a collective breath. He must've been in the same situation at Daryl, his arm extended to keep a walker away, when another one came and bit into his forearm. The bite was perfectly round, all of the teeth leaving their impressions, bright blood rolling from his skin and hitting the floor.

He already had tears in his eyes. "Just… just let me stay with you… please don't leave me here alone… I'm not dead yet… I'm not dead yet…"

"Nobody's gonna kill you, John," Rick assured him, stepping forward to lay a shaky hand on his shoulder. He looked back miserably at Daryl and blinked hard. He patted the man's back and started through the far doorway. "Let's get this over with. I saw a sign for a cafeteria. Pull the duffel bags out Merle."

For once, Merle had nothing smart to say. Daryl appreciated it. He'd been alright with John, and he knew the guy had a four-year-old son waiting for him back at the prison. He could add that kid to the list of little boys who didn't have a dad just because of this trip. He had those boys in mind as he leaned on his brother's shoulder and limped into the hallway, adrenaline keeping him wide awake. He listened to John's soft, almost inaudible sobs and his heart twisted in a knot.

The cafeteria was what they'd hoped for. It was a private staff venue, but the back had piles of canned, powdered, and pickled foods. Merle passed out the duffel bags, which had been folded up in his bulky bag, and everyone loaded one up, taking on the burden with the hope that this food would support their friends and family. Daryl sat against the wall near the locked door, sipping bourbon while his brother fixed the stitches in his stomach.

Rick came to them with his stuffed duffel and set it down, crouching to stare at Daryl's wounds. "That one didn't break… it tore the skin out," he commented, taking lighter from Merle's backpack. He presented it to him, eyebrows drawn. "You know what has to be done."

Daryl took a large swallow of bourbon and gasped as it rolled down his throat. He tried to take the lighter, but Rick held it out of his reach. "I'd rather die," he growled, reaching again, though this time with far less energy. He let his hand slap to the floor. He had a vivid memory of the last time he'd been burned – his dad had heated a crowbar and dug it into his back – and that memory, coupled with blood loss, exhaustion, and fear, made his judgment fail. He knew it was the right thing to do, but at the same time he couldn't let them. He just couldn't let it happen.

"Sorry, baby brother," Merle said, shaking his head. He patted the uninjured side of Daryl's stomach and set his tools down, wiping Daryl's blood off on his jeans. He took the lighter from Rick and started heating a flat section of metal, his fingers protected by a section of a mouse pad. Daryl could see it getting hotter, turning bright orange as the lighter flared beneath it. He knew this was gonna hurt like a bitch.

XxX

Merle sat beside his unconscious brother in the storage room of the cafeteria, his eyes fixed on the far wall, his mind a convoluted maze of fear, apprehension, and hostility. He wanted to blame someone for what he'd heard only minutes ago. He wanted to hurt someone else for making his brother scream like that, like he was dying, like he'd never felt pain so great in such a tender area. But he was the culprit. He'd agreed with Rick. He knew that cauterizing the section of the wound that couldn't be stitched was their best option, but after experiencing that pain himself, he never wanted to inflict it on _anyone_, let alone his own brother. To hear that kid scream… He thought that sound would linger, that it would prove the subject of nightmares, but what came after it was a much more powerful blow. His begging.

"Please, please, _please_," he'd cried, clutching at Merle's hands, groaning when he was restrained by the other group members, thrashing his head around with tears rolling down his face, "Please stop, please, _please_." He screamed when the metal touched him, and then his voice dropped again, terrified, tormented. "Merle! Stop!"

He remembered saying something at that point, telling him to stop acting like such a pussy, but he regretted it only seconds later. He finished the last of the burning and saw his brother's eyes roll back into his skull. His head dropped lifelessly. His chest stopped moving altogether. Rick shoved him aside immediately and listened for a heartbeat, leaving Merle to sit there, stunned, immediately overwhelmed by the notion that he'd killed Daryl. But CPR saved him, and he came back sputtering, blinking rapidly, gasping for air. Merle remembered seeing Michonne's hand go to her mouth, her eyes glassy, and he felt the wave of grief coming from Rick even as he tried to save his friend's life. It was a relief, but Merle still felt guilty.

As he sat there thinking about how he should retire from brotherhood, Michonne came into the room with a canteen and sat on Daryl's other side, stroking his hair back from his sweaty face. She covered a napkin in water and wiped the blood away. "He'll be okay," she said, speaking to Merle but still watching his brother. "He's tough, like you."

Merle snorted, but didn't respond. His mouth was full of sand.

"This isn't your fault," she said, looking up at him with a fierce expression. She looked like she was ready to fight. "This is _their_ fault, those men up there who took him. He said he could've heard five voices. There could be more of them just waiting to kill our entire group."

He felt exhausted, physically and emotionally, but her words sparked his interest. He'd been there when his brother had spat out that number, describing the voices he'd heard as he'd been beaten within inches of his life. If there was anyone else responsible for the way his brother looked right now, he wanted them dead. He wanted to put his blade through their skulls.

"Rick can take care of Daryl – we can go after the others," she concluded, staring him down with an expression as enticing as it was intimidating. He'd forgotten how strong she was – a freaking ninja wielding that damn sword. And she was his brother's friend. He often saw them together, laughing, swapping stories, riding off into the sunset on their horses. She had just as much reason to wipe those men out of existence as he did.

He cocked an eyebrow, his answer already forming in his mind as he sized her up, considering her as a partner in crime rather than an adversary. "We'd make a badass team," he murmured, glancing at Daryl and then looking back at her. "Fine, but before we go off saving the day," he stood, waiting until she rose to stand face-to-face with her. She scowled. He narrowed his eyes. "If I die, you take care of my brother and his baby, and that girl a' his. Deal?"

"Only if you'll do the same."


	35. The Ninth Circle

**Again, don't worry about Michonne, she's just friends with Daryl. Friends. Not lovers. Not a romantic interest of any kind. While that would be an interesting pairing, I'm a Caryl lover. I believe that men and women can be friends and care about each other without being romantic. As far as pairings go for this story I'm sticking with Carol and Daryl – once he gets back, it's time to deal with dramatic and angry pregnant Carol, and believe me, that's gonna be fun. I'm also thinking of doing Merle and Beth, though that's timid at the moment because she's so young. I've also considered Merle and Michonne, and Rick and Michonne, but I'm unsure. Anyway, I wanted to continue the story before I went to sleep, so here it is.**

**Also, if you like the Caryl pairing, I'd like to point you in the direction of a fabulous artist on Deviantart, username nuttymcnut. She's done some really cool Carol and Daryl manipulations and animations. Don't stare at them too long. You'll hurt your eyes.**

XxX

From the cafeteria, they took a narrow staircase down two levels, stepping into a small room that looked like it belonged in a lavish house of the Victorian era. The walls were covered with priceless oil paintings, a decadent stone fireplace sat untouched in the corner, every piece of regal furniture was fit with beautiful, smooth patterns of muted earth tones, and the floors creaked under them like they were made of wood rather than stone. As he came through the arch above the steps, Rick signaled his group to spread out, bearing Daryl to the couch and sitting him down gently. He groaned and rolled sideways, pressing his face into the pillow.

"We'll rest here for the night and get our strength up – we don't know what's on the bottom level, but I have a feeling it's not Candy Land." He sat beside Daryl, pulling him upright to inspect the swelling of his eye. "I think it's broken, or at least fractured."

"My _eye_?"

"The socket."

He groaned again and laid his head back, using one hand to rub his cheek. Rick knew the symptoms of this type of fracture from his childhood. His father had fallen on the steps and fractured his eye socket, leading to double vision, a numb face, and a sunken eye. He lived with it for the rest of his life. Though Daryl's eye hadn't sunken in, and the swelling wasn't as severe as it had been only hours ago, he was still concerned.

While he asked Daryl questions about his symptoms, the others journeyed around the room, inspecting relics from another time period. Maggie found a nametag in the desk drawer that indicated a scientist had used this room as an office, and everyone mused about his obsessions, gathering things they wanted to keep and rifling through age-old books just to quote them aloud in silly accents. Without the Michonne and Merle, who'd gone to make sure there were no other survivors in this facility, there was no one to sulk.

Daryl fell asleep about half an hour after they entered the room, at which point Rick went to do some exploring of his own. He slipped out, checked the floor number, and was relieved to know they were on 2B, which he'd come to know as two-from-the-bottom. The next floor would be called B, and what they found there could make or break their trip. He also walked the halls, finding this floor to be quite small, circular, and silent. It was also clean, free of blood spatter, and, though abandoned, secure. Every door was locked, so he had to peer through the wall-sized windows to see what was inside. Lab equipment, worth billions of dollars, and hundreds of rotting animals, sealed inside with their stench and the toxic gasses released as they decomposed. He was glad for the locked doors when he saw their liquid remains pooling in the cages.

He found the staircase at the other side of the circular hallway. The door was sealed, but he managed to open it and inspect the landing. It was cut off from the rest of the facility. If they were caught in a jam down there, they'd have to run up the stairs, around the hallway, and then back into the Victorian room. From there they'd have to traverse the cafeteria and the entire fourth floor to get back to the main stairs.

He went back to the room with a heavy mind, aware that their trip was only half over. The prospect of walking all that way again, and then locating the cars, and _then_ driving all the way back to the prison just to unload all the shit they'd carried up those stairs, made him want to curl up and sleep for a year. Most of his companions already had. He took the first watch by the door, his back against the smooth mahogany. Three hours later Michonne and Merle came back having found no signs of other survivors. They were both sulking. Michonne took over his post and he went to sit against the couch, right under Daryl's dangling arm. Merle sat on the couch and slumped against the opposite side, his eyes open.

Before he knew it, he was being woken, and flashlights bobbed around the dark room. Everyone was getting their gear ready, leaving the heavy duffel bags here so they could grab them on the way out. He hauled himself up, glanced at Daryl, who was being force-fed granola bars by his brother, and then started sharpening is knife. They all had smiles on their faces when Daryl got up on his own and limped across the room, clutching his side. He gasped in a breath and held onto the chair, glancing around and smiling shyly. He wasn't used to the attention.

"You look better," Rick commented, going over to stand with him in case he took a nosedive into the table. Daryl's eyes weren't swollen anymore, though they were bruised so bad they made him look like a raccoon. His burns didn't look infected, but incredibly tender, and Rick hated that he'd have to reapply antibiotic before they moved on. It would hurt like hell. The stitches, which remained in places where they didn't need to cauterize, had held through his sleep and the journey down to this room. The healing process was slow and agonizing, but it was beginning. He couldn't have been happier to see it.

Daryl flashed another smile and shrugged, "Thanks to you and that jackass over there. That was quick thinkin', burnin' it shut." He hesitated, and then put a hand on Rick's shoulder. "Thank you. I owe you one."

"You don't owe me anything," Rick countered, clasping Daryl's shoulder and motioning to Merle, who walked over while stretching his arms. He was smirking. "Watch for rapid eye movement, nausea, and double vision. Those could be signs we're dealing with something much worse than a little bruising."

He went from the Dixons to the door, where Michonne was waiting, katana in hand. She nodded to him and then looked past him to Daryl, concerned. "How is he?"

"He's out of the fire for now. How's John?"

"See for yourself." She grabbed his arm and directed him to the other corner, where Maggie was sitting with John Anders. Sweat beaded on his forehead and poured down his face. His eyes were dilated and his hands were trembling uncontrollably. There was no better word than afraid to describe how he was feeling.

Rick crouched in front of him, stilled his hands, and looked into his eyes, trying to portray as much confidence as he could. "I'm sorry this happened to you. I just want you to know your kids are gonna be fine – they're gonna be taken care of, and your wife, she'll know how strong you were, how you kept us alive the best you could." His words made the other man cry, which twisted a dagger in Rick's heart. "You know what happens next, John."

"Just do it, just kill me, I can't be one of them," he twisted his wrists, presenting himself for execution. He stared into Rick's eyes, fear and grief blending in a deadly way. "Put me down. And… and tell my kids I died a hero. Just tell them that. Don't tell them I cried."

"There's no shame in that," Rick said, turning his hands back the way they were. He shook his head, unable to put what he was thinking into words. "I won't tell them. I won't."

He stood up to Michonne's touch and they both stepped back. John was going into the final stages of the fever. His knees, which had been curled up to his chest, began to tremble like his hands. His eyes darted back and forth, the pupils shaking unnaturally. He reached out and Maggie took his hand, comforting him where she could, wiping the sweat away and trying to get him to drink a little water. It was too late for that. Rick picked her up by the arm and kept her away. She stared at him, angry, and then turned and hugged his neck, sobbing into his shoulder. He patted her back, staring straight ahead, waiting for that last breath.

It came in a whisper, leaving him. His hand dropped to the ground and his head shifted sideways. In the background he could hear Merle whisper something to Daryl, and he sensed Sasha reaching toward Maggie, wishing to comfort her but having no idea where to begin. In the foreground there was only death. Again. More of it. This man didn't deserve to die, and in his death Rick found the promise of repeated, undeserved punishment. When would it stop? When would it ease off?

"We should get moving," Michonne murmured. She touched his shoulder and when he recoiled, she spoke more gently, this time nodding toward the body. "Take them out of here, Rick. I'll handle this."

He nodded numbly and pried Maggie off of him, directing her to the door. He touched Daryl's shoulder, nodded to Merle, who stood respectfully behind his brother, and grabbed Asante, possibly the group's youngest members, by the shoulders. The young man was staring at John's body, completely lost in his own thoughts. He babbled something to Rick as he was dragged toward the door, but Rick didn't hear him. He didn't hear much of anything except the sound of Michonne's blade ripping through John's head.

They walked in loose formation through the circular hallway. Rick stayed at the front, tuning out the words of his companions, and focused wholly on the task at hand. They were about to descend another floor to the very bottom of this shithole. Whatever was important enough to dig more than twelve stories into the ground was about to come to light. Had they discovered what caused the disease? Had they found a cure? Had they stored hundreds of walkers down there for research purposes? Was he walking his group into a death trap? He couldn't know, and for once that didn't bother him. He'd lost two people in this place and he didn't intend to lose any more. Whatever was down there, it would be theirs, and they would make it out in one piece.

Merle called him back at the staircase. He helped get Daryl to the bottom, at which point they found another barricade. He stepped up to the window and tried to look through, but it was too dark inside, and the beam of his flashlight only showed him a reflection of his own troubled face. He helped Merle rip the largest boards from the wall, nearly stabbing himself several times with long, rusted nails. They were pulled down a particularly tall board when it snapped and sent another flying, whacking Michonne in the head so hard she was out cold for at least a minute. She woke up supremely pissed and took her katana to the structure, provoking well-needed laughter from the others. Rick even smiled a little, amused when she carved an 'M' into the board that had smacked her, saying, 'just so it will remember me.'

As the pile fell, Rick became more anxious. Perhaps they should've called it a day and headed home after that last score in the cafeteria. Maybe this bottom floor was where they stored the walkers, and opening that door would lead to them being mobbed. Maybe he didn't want to see what was hidden back there.

Still, he couldn't help his curiosity as the way was cleared. He stepped up and grasped the handle, taking a deep breath and testing the lock. It was open. He looked back at the others and whispered, "If this goes south, you know how to get out. Stay together if you can, but don't look back."

He tugged the door open and a cool breeze enveloped the hot stairwell, brushing their hair out of their faces and widening their eyes to the sudden onslaught of scents. Flashlights buzzed around the room, searching every corner. What he took in was not alarming, but it bred incredible hope in his heart. He saw what Heaven must've looked like to a living man.

"Holy shit…" Daryl mumbled, detaching from his brother and stumbling forward. Both Rick and Merle reached out to steady him, but he was out of their reach already. Maggie followed him immediately, mimicking his words, her eyes just as wide. Even Michonne, as quiet and level-headed as she was, showed immediate and palpable joy, a radiant smile spreading across her face. It was like Christmas had come three weeks early. Bringing this back to the prison would be a warm welcome into the holiday.

He shared a smile with every face he could meet, enjoying the way his companions ran through the aisles like they were children, their faces lit up, practically glowing. He forgot his grief and his fear, and for once, that didn't mean something bad was about to happen.

It meant something wonderful had come.


	36. The End of an Era

**Sorry for the cliffhanger… couldn't help myself :P Anyway, I liked writing this chapter. It's essentially the end of the pre-baby era for these two. Carol is about five months pregnant at this time, give or take two weeks, and shit's about to go down in the prison. Wanna know the meaning of my title, Fear the Living? Well, here it is. Fear the living pregnant woman, for hell hath no fury and no greater blame upon men!**

**That's not really why I called it that, but I think it fits.**

XxX

Unsettled. There was no better way to describe how the group was feeling as they ascended the main staircase, each of them clutching one valuable item or another, dragging along at least fifty pounds of dead weight, leaving behind the heat, finding tranquil warmth, and then plunging into the cold above. It was enough to numb them. Less than half an hour after leaving the bottom of the bunker, they emerged on the surface, pushing their way through the cleverly hidden hatch first discovered by Michonne and Daryl. They hiked back to the cars and then pulled off road to park alongside the opening, strapping larger items to the tops and stuffing their packs into the back. The groups were split again, this time leaving Asante, Maggie, and Daryl on the surface while the others went back for the supplies they'd been forced to leave behind. It was a long, excruciating trip up and down those stairs, but soon Rick's legs went numb, and the weight of what he carried seemed to float off of his shoulders. He, along with Michonne, Merle, and Sasha, trudged to the bottom of the bunker at least seven times to bring the bulk of their loot to the surface. At that point they were too exhausted to go on, and they all stacked into the cars for a rest, remaining silent so that wandering walkers would pass them by.

Rick woke hours later to a shove from Merle, who advised they continue their quest to bring the rest of what they'd found to the surface. He looked at the others: Sasha, who'd been keeping the walkers off of their backs as they moved through the building, was reclined in the passenger's seat of their SUV, her eyes rimmed with bags, her eyelids fluttering as a bad dream consumed her. Michonne was curled up beside him, facing the window, her head cradled in both arms, her face troubled. Being smacked by that board seemed to have lasting effects. He didn't want to wake either of them, content to do twice the work to let them get some well-deserved sleep. He took that burden on himself, and, by the way Merle acted, stoic and grown-up for once, he could tell that the other man also chose to bear the extra weight.

They began the journey downward again, passing through the cold, the warmth, and the searing heat to approach the bottom. He almost wished they'd skipped clearing all the floors in-between and gone straight to their greatest discovery, but he valued the food and information they'd discovered, and if they hadn't decimated half of the walkers in this place, the two of them would be overwhelmed by now.

The steps led out into a large room with vaulted ceilings, which housed several rows of tall shelves, so large they brushed the metal framework above. He took a breath, feeling the relief of this discovery all over again. Both men knew exactly what to go for first, crossing the room and stopping at the far wall, where most of the supplies had already been removed. They took two sides of a heavy solar panel, wrapping the cords and doohickeys around their wrists to keep them from dragging along the ground, and began shuffling toward the exit. This was only one of four – the others were already strapped to the top of the SUV. It took an hour to navigate the panel up the steps and get it battened down properly. It wasn't so much physical labor as it was a puzzle, so Rick came out with enough energy to continue.

Without questioning each other, they went to the back of the SUV, took out their packs, and then shut the trunk, sitting down against the side and sipping half-frozen water, their hands trembling so much it spilled into their laps. Rick passed him a piece of jerky and they both ate, chewing silently, staring at the bunker's foreboding entrance.

The next trip was for the rest of the survival gear. Someone had stockpiled what they would need to survive this event, and since they were all rotting in the stairwell, it was fair game to Rick and the rest of the group. They walked through the aisles grabbing lanterns, batteries, toilet paper, blankets, and mason jars full of preserved fruits and vegetables. The two of them were strong enough to fill their packs with supplies, shoulder a full duffel bag, and then carry an even heavier one between them as they ascended the steps. It was grueling. Each movement began to burn like fire in his calves, sending a shockwave up to his head, jolting his spine, making his fingers and his toes ache. He could see the same wear in Merle, but neither of them complained. It was an unspoken agreement; they would endure this like men, and they would get to go home sooner because of it, and bring food, water, and supplies to the people at the prison.

By the time Michonne stirred, the dark, cold night was shifting into morning, and Merle and Rick were emptying their bags into the floorboards for the sixth time. They all waited on the same side of the vehicle, their eyes on the sky, and then they turned their faces up to the rising sun. Rick smiled, enjoying the touch of light on his skin. How long had it been? Weeks? He felt like he'd spent a lifetime groping through the darkness below.

"How much is left?" Michonne wondered, looking pointedly at the stuffed trunk and the piles of supplies beneath the feet of their sleeping companions. She had one eyebrow cocked, proud of them, but perturbed at the same time. The wound on her forehead had formed an ugly scab, and though her eyes still had bags under them, she appeared as strong as she had the day they'd begun.

Rick handed her a duffel bag and shrugged, "Why don't you come see?"

They finished three more trips before the sun rose full-force, waking the others with its warm persistence. It was still freezing out, but they noticed the feeling of light on their skin, how it felt to open their eyes without turning on a flashlight, to look at each other without that unnatural glow. Most of what they'd found in the stockpile would prove invaluable, but some of it they left behind, preferring blankets to a small fishing boat, and solar panels to junk food. They could get more nutrients from gnawing on cardboard.

It was almost time to leave. Everyone felt it in the air. It was almost time to go back to their loved ones, to hold their children again, to sleep for days to recuperate from this long and stressful journey. It was almost time to show the people at the prison what they'd found, to share exciting stories of life in the darkness, to grieve for the people they'd lost, to get on with their lives with more enthusiasm than they'd had in months. But there was still work to be done. Rick had to rearrange the seating so he could stack supplies on the laps of passengers, moving the panels inside in case it rained or sleeted while they were driving. The only lap he didn't fill belonged to their most injured passenger, Daryl, whose conditioned worsened as they prepared to leave.

Merle and Rick stood in the doorway, watching as Daryl writhed in his seat, his eyes tightly shut. He was running a temperature, burning up from the inside. There was nothing they could do at this time, but they couldn't just hop in and drive away with him in this condition. Michonne suggested she knock him unconscious, an idea quickly shot down by Merle, who tightened the blade on his prosthetic for dramatic effect. Rick went through the medication they'd brought and administered two fever-reducers, one specific to infections, the other a general, dim dosage that would lay a foundation for the other. They wrapped him up in a blanket because despite the heat pouring from his forehead and neck, his fingertips, legs, and feet were frigid.

"Here, drink something," Rick advised, letting him drink from his canteen with a straw. He sucked the whole thing down in just a few gulps, drawing back and gasping for air. Rick looked at Merle, concerned, and then wiped the sweat from Daryl's face. "We're gonna get going now. I need you to hold on. Hershel's gonna fix you up, okay?"

Daryl nodded, shivering, and waited until the door was shut to slump against the glass. Rick and Merle stayed there to watch him, their minds going to the darkest places, and then they boarded the SUV and signaled the car to get going. Maggie was driving. Merle sat in the back with Daryl, trying to coax him to drink some more water to make up for the copious amounts he'd sweated out. Michonne sat in the front with Rick, constantly looking back, passing Merle the things he asked for. Rick listened and watched them in the rear-view mirror, disturbed by this sudden change, but he couldn't do anything to help. He was too busy navigating a muddy path that ran around a car accident, praying he didn't get stuck.

The prison wasn't far, but the roads they had to take were crowded with walkers. His two greatest assets, Merle and Michonne, forged a path in front of the vehicles, rolling bodies and severing heads in a flurry of blood and bright steel. They edged forward, and then found a clear stretch, at which point the two warriors leapt into the vehicle and both cars gunned it. Daryl was coming out of his fever-induced exhaustion, more aware with all of the action going on, and eventually he shrugged off the blanket, requesting water. He managed to empty everyone's canteens.

It was slow going, frustrating, and far from what he'd imagined their homecoming to be, but Rick was still relieved as they came upon the familiar highway leading to the prison. He was even more relieved when he saw his son standing at the gate, beaming at him as they drove through. Finally, he could see the prison again, he could see the shed he'd started weeks ago coming to completion, the vegetable garden empty now that everything had been harvested; he could see a crowd coming out to greet them, children waving, adults holding their breath.

He parked in the courtyard and slid out, immediately embraced by his son, who sobbed softly into his chest. He stroked Carl's hair and held him tight, going so far as to pet the yappy dog leaping up his legs. The door behind him opened and Daryl staggered out, throwing the peace sign to the crowd, which drew a collective, shocked breath as they saw his bruises. Merle jogged around to catch him before he went face-first into the cement.

As much as he hated it, he had to push his son away. He approached Diane, who stood with her son Richard in her arms, and put both hands on her shoulders, shaking his head gently. "I'm sorry. He went down fighting – he was a good man."

Her grief, no matter how cold it seemed, was short-lived to him. He had to leave her like that, his hand on his boy's shoulder, and walk on sore feet until he climbed those final steps into the prison. Carl led him to Beth's cell and his daughter squealed in delight. He reached out for her, cradling her against his chest, and let a few tears fall.

XxX

Carol was talking quietly with Glenn in the hall outside the cell block, where they'd imprisoned a little girl caught in the act of sabotaging the safety of the entire group. They'd found her with the hammer, trying to beat the lock off of a door. She didn't even deny what she'd been doing. She cried, though. Carol was about to go in and comfort her when Dave came rushing down the hall and announced the return of the expedition group. Immediately forgetting what they'd been talking about, Carol and Glenn jogged through the halls to exit C-block. She lingered in the caged staircase, watching the SUV, and Glenn streaked through the door, grabbing Maggie before she could touch the ground and spinning her around. Her giggling filled the air.

She saw Daryl stumble out, bruised and bleary-eyed, and she almost ran out to him, only to be stopped by Hershel, who'd come up from behind her. "You don't need to bear any extra weight. Let Merle carry him." He put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed. "Jesus, did they push him off a cliff?"

Carol opened the door for Merle, ushering him through and rushing ahead once they were inside. She directed him to her cell and motioned to the far side of the bed. "This way, right there." She prepared one of Daryl's other shirts and then joined Hershel on the mattress, on her knees behind Daryl. She forced the tattered rags off of his shoulders and supported him while Hershel inspected a brutal wound on his stomach.

"What happened?" she asked, breathless.

Merle stepped over to help Hershel, shining a bright light onto the bright pink flesh protruding from Daryl's side. "Some thugs left over in the bunker. Took care of 'em."

She sat with him for over half an hour, holding his head against her shoulder, answering his questions about her pregnancy and the dog, stroking his hair back and pressing her lips to his forehead. He smiled dopily a few times, and then shyly, glancing at his brother, unsure of how he should be acting in Merle's presence. It didn't seem to matter when Hershel started pulling pieces of the scab out of his wound; he leaned into her, gasping, and squeezed her hand.

"These scabs are acting like shrapnel, reentering the wound and causing more damage. You've been moving too much. The fever is a result of the reentry. It should fade with time." Hershel looked at Merle, "Go to my room and get ibuprofen. It should ease the pain until he can fall asleep. Your body needs to recover, so expect to hibernate for a while," he looked back at Daryl and ran a wet cloth along the bloodstains on his belly, separating stain from scratch. "The rest of these are superficial. They should heal up on their own. Give him four ibuprofen and put him to bed for the rest of the day; don't let him go anywhere."

She nodded, grasping his hand to show her gratitude. He left to deal with Michonne's head injury, and to console grieving families. From what she heard, they'd lost two of their men – Marcus and John. She couldn't grieve for them yet, too consumed with her task.

He laid down willingly, asking for more water each time he downed a cup, sweating it out in minutes, thrashing around when she wasn't looking. He said his muscles were aching. She gave him the medicine retrieved by Merle and stroked his cheek until he finally fell asleep, staring down at him, affection and concern fighting for control of her mind. Merle looked at him the same way. They sat up and talked for hours, biding the day. He sensed her stress and tried to relieve it by describing the bunker and the supplies they'd brought back, his raspy voice going on until she was sure he'd exceeded his word quota for the day. She appreciated it.

Eight hours in, the fever faded and his face relaxed. Carol sent Merle to his own cell and shut her door, pulling off Daryl's socks and pants so she could cover him up the right way. He curled into the sheets, blinked at her, and then his eyes rolled shut again. She sat up against the headboard, watching him breathe, monitoring his temperature, thanking God he hadn't died down there. She let herself feel the fear and the grief now that he was out of danger. Tears rolled down her cheeks for her friend, Marcus, and the kids who'd lost their father, John. She thought about Cane – what would she say to him? Owen had died only days ago, and now his dad was gone, too? How would she look at Dave again? Daryl had made it, but Dave's brother had not.

He woke up around eight and sat up with her, recounting what he could from the bunker, his hand running mindlessly over her stomach as he spoke. She had his other hand in hers, her head on his shoulder. Their thighs were pressed together, their feet entangled, warmth passing between them. "I had a dream about you when I was out," he admitted, twisting his head to kiss the top of hers. He smiled into her hair. "You had a boy. He came out holding a crossbow."


	37. Your Brain on Drugs

**Sorry it took so long to post this chapter, I've been distracted. They just moved my grandmother to a hospice and we're expecting her death any day… it's been depressing, so I wasn't in the mood to write. But I figured I should post something before the new episode comes on Sunday. I went a little lighter in this chapter – I hope you enjoy Daryl Dixon on painkillers.**

XxX

"Can't you give him something that won't make him think he's the Hulk?"

While Carol spoke, Daryl rolled around in the covers, a wide grin on his face, flexing his arms and grunting in his very best impression of the hulking green hero he was positive he had become. He'd already smashed a hole in the wall, torn a large section of her favorite quilt, and emerged victorious from a series of battles against any man who walked by the room. As painkillers and antibiotics combined in his system, mixing with the small amount of rum he'd managed to drink while she wasn't paying attention, he became more and more out of touch with reality. The only benefit was his happiness, which was palpable. Everything made him smile. Every word she said brought that dopey look to his face, prompting him to stroke her cheek and tell her how much he'd missed her while he was in Oz, making him dance around the cell block handing out pieces of scrap paper like they were bouquets of flowers. Besides giving everyone a good laugh and future blackmailing material, it brought a light spirit to the darkness that the group had brought back with them. Yesterday they'd had the funerals, and today the survivor's got to meet Daryl on drugs. It was a welcome contrast.

Hershel, to whom she'd been speaking, shook his head and smiled at the man writhing happily on her bed. He was among those Daryl had put in a headlock earlier, but as gentle as Daryl was with his competitors, his hair wasn't even ruffled. "The best thing you can do is wait it out. It shouldn't last much longer. Once he comes out of it he'll want to sleep again." He turned his affectionate gaze on her. "And how are you feeling?"

"Fine. Glad he's back," she smiled at Daryl, who immediately sat up, tilted his head, and started clapping. He then went to the door, hung over the balcony, and demanded to know who'd been calling him. She watched him like she watched the other child in her custody – Cane was still camping out at the end of the bed, giggling at Daryl's antics. "I just wish I'd had a little more time with him before he lost it, you know?"

Hershel laughed, pressing a bottle of painkillers into her hand. "Here. You'll want to give him two when midnight comes, even if he's asleep. If he goes too long without them, he'll start to feel that wound again."

Carol walked out with him, retrieving Daryl and pulling him back into the cell. She shut the door and sat with Cane while Daryl investigated the side table, reading labels and asking her about every ingredient listed. She kept him entertained until he migrated back to the bed and passed out with his arm slung across his face, at which point she took Cane outside, locked the cell to make sure he didn't take another alcohol-related field trip, and walked to the bottom of the cell block. It was empty except for the two dogs wrestling near the stairs. They greeted her excitedly, and Sugar, who'd been kept out of her room all day because of Daryl's condition, whimpered and pressed her face against Carol's thigh.

The further they walked from Daryl, the more Cane's mood declined. He hadn't spoken since his brother's death, and hearing of his father's tragic murder in the bunker had solidified the silence in his young mind. She was thankful that he seemed to want to be with her, though, because it meant he wasn't completely lost. She could bring him back just like she had before. This time it would take a while. He held her hand and led the way out of the cell block and into the yard, where things had returned to normal. She waved at Asante as she passed him, wondering if Daryl had grown to like him or loathe him. She saw John Anders' twins, Sam and Dana, walking out to their father's grave, their baby brother Richard stumbling after them, their mother not far behind, a flower clutched in her hands. She expected Cane to want the same thing – to see his father's and his brother's graves lying side-by-side, covered in flowers, marked by a hand-made cross – but he wandered aimlessly through the gardens, those beautiful brown eyes transfixed on the distance.

They were approached by Merle as they came to the fence. He was carrying a snare, preparing to go out and check the others he'd set the day before. He hadn't been at the funerals, nor had he visited his brother since Hershel assured them that he'd make a full recovery. He walked over, touched Cane's head, and frowned down at the kid – it wasn't really an expression, but the way his face was set whenever he wasn't smiling. It was one of those old southern traits, to scowl at the sun all day and maintain that expression just because it stuck.

"Sorry 'bout your dad, kid," he murmured, glancing at Carol as he went on, "He was as brave as they come, goin' down there not knowin' what we'd find."

Cane didn't look up. He didn't acknowledge those words. It would almost seem that he hadn't heard, but Carol could see a soft glaze forming over his eyes in response to thinking about his father. She smiled at Merle, glad for his gentle sincerity, and motioned to the snare. "You going hunting?"

"Yeah, figure I can snag a few more hares 'fore they all go into hiding."

"You're not gonna come see Daryl?"

"No… not now," he turned, heading for the fence, and they walked together. Cane continued at her side, peering up at Merle with all the curiosity he could muster. "Heard he was makin' a fool out of himself, though. The hell'd ya'll give him?"

She shrugged. "Painkillers, mostly. Hershel says he must've had some alcohol. Combined it's messing with his head. Last time I checked he thought he was the Hulk."

"Always was his favorite superhero."

"Why's that?"

He reached the gate and nodded to Carl, who was lingering on the other side. As the boy undid the locks and ran the metal across the gravel, he considered her question and gave her an answer too serious to be a joke. "He said not even daddy could hit the hulk and get away with it." He stepped through the fence, winked, and held the snare over his shoulder. "Get on back to him, then. Last time I's acting like that, I jumped out a two-story window. Damn near killed myself."

XxX

Midnight came in the middle of Cane's fourth bedtime story. She sent him to get her a cup of water while she woke her slumbering lover. Daryl was himself again, though tired and cloudy-eyed. He greeted her with a soft smile and took the pills dry, mashing his hair down with both hands as he struggled to sit up. "How long was I out?" he wondered, yawning mid-question.

She called Sugar up from the floor, running her hands over the young dog's fur while she spoke. She didn't want to stare at Daryl's stomach, which was horribly bruised and discolored. "Just a few hours. Do you remember anything?"

He chuckled. "Yeah… wish I didn't."

Cane returned and gave Daryl the water, quickly climbing back onto the bed and leaning over the dog. He kissed the top of her head, petted her back, and then crawled beside Daryl and laid his head on the pillows, his tired eyes rolling shut immediately. The two of them looked at him like he was their own son, and then their gazes met, perhaps sharing a thought. Daryl's eyes slid down to her stomach and she went back to looking at Sugar.

"How's Owen taking the news?"

She looked up, too surprised to dampen the grief in her expression. "I didn't tell you." It wasn't a question, but a statement. She glanced at Cane, who seemed to be sleeping, and then whispered, "He was… bitten. A few day ago."

"_How_?"

"Eliza… she broke some of the barricades and let the walkers from the lower level into the infirmary near A-block."

He leaned closer, his eyes narrowed, "Why would she do that? She's just a kid."

"She hasn't said. Rick was supposed to talk to her today, but I haven't seen him. I've been here." She crossed her arms, her elbows resting on the sides of her belly, and looked at the door. She was curious about the girl's motives, but she was too busy with Daryl to find out what had become of Rick's interrogation.

His recounted some of what he'd experienced in the bunker. Carol laid down beside him and he wrapped an arm over her side, his hand running over her stomach in slow circles, his voice letting her drift away from the worries in her mind. It wasn't until two or three in the morning when he mumbled that he was going to try and sleep, at which point she snuggled her face into the pillow and tried to imagine that dark, cold place he'd spent the last week exploring. Her mind ended up on Cane though, and she wondered what would become of the little boy who'd lost his entire family; could she possibly keep him and raise him as her own? Would anyone in the prison object to that? Would she be able to handle a newborn and a three-year-old at the same time?

Her anxiety never got very strong. At some point in the night Cane crawled over to her and curled up in her arms, forcing Daryl to scoot back toward the wall. It was hard for her to feel anything but compassion and love with a child in her arms, a baby in her stomach, and a warm, strong arm locked around her. She was able to slip into content dreams with the knowledge that everything might just work out – even though she doubted her own exhausted fantasies, she went with the suspension of disbelief and allowed her hope to grow.

This was her family now. She would survive this.


	38. Bliss

Daryl's recovery and subsequent rehabilitation stretched out over the next two weeks, allowing him some well-deserved rest and a chance to spend the long days getting reacquainted with the other survivors in the prison. He was able to pick up his guard-routine with Carl, and they spent long days with their feet propped in the guard towers, speaking about things that didn't even scratch the surface of their deep thoughts. He went back to watching Judith whenever Rick or Beth weren't available, or when they both crashed simultaneously after a long day of that kid caterwauling for no discernable reason. He patrolled the gardens in the sunlight, looking sadly at the plots where the potatoes had been – days ago, Hershel had ordered them dug up, as they were finally ready to eat. He wished he could've seen it again. Now it just looked like someone had dropped a bomb on the square patch of land.

The highlight of his recovery was returning to Carol each and every evening, getting tangled up with her in the sheets, sharing warmth and swapping stories. He went to her to wind down. Their friendship strengthened each morning they woke up together. She would smile at him, wrinkle her nose, and stroke his face, drawing him willingly out of his dreams. On occasion she was a nightmare – angry, not wanting to be touched, sobbing uncontrollably, acting like he'd done something unforgiveable and then apologizing the same day. He wanted to throttle her on those days. But any other time, she was his best friend, his closest companion, and being with her was blissful. It felt right. He felt _whole_.

It was Christmas Eve when those two weeks were up, and Rick, having just returned from raiding a small farm not seven miles from the prison, pulled Daryl out of his bliss to go over some maps from Woodbury. He wanted a better source of live animals. The farm he'd raided had given them a sizeable rooster and an aggressive sow who'd lost an entire litter of piglets only a week or so before their arrival. Daryl could tell Rick was anxious, wired up about the rate at which the food was disappearing. As Daryl went over a few of the topographical maps, trying to recall what he'd seen when driving along those roads, Rick paced the cell, his hand pulling at his beard.

Daryl found three farms within fifty miles, though some were only accessible by foot because of the markings on the maps. Several acres were crossed off with red marker and labeled 'stagnant herds.' He didn't even want to know what that meant. Hundreds of walkers just standing around waiting for them to drive up? He explained the location of each farm to Rick, who nodded steadily as he spoke, and then rolled up the map and stood from his bunk. He placed it in Rick's hand, holding onto it a moment longer and staring right into the man's eyes. "Listen, don't go running off. It's Christmas. Sit down with your boy, and Judith, and just enjoy it. We'll hold out just fine."

Rick watched him, and then his eyes flickered down to the map. He released it, relinquishing his anxiety to the rolled paper in Daryl's hand. He took a step away and sighed. "Yeah… yeah, you're probably right. We gotta enjoy this. It's… it's Judith's first Christmas, you know." As Daryl nodded and they shared a moment of the manliest caliber, a cranky baby came crawling down the balcony, her face scrunched up in a half-cry, half-pout, tears already forming in the pits of her beautiful brown eyes. He retrieved his daughter and handed her over to Daryl, saying he had some things to get done before the morning came.

Daryl nodded, smiling at the princess in his arms. She made a gleeful face, reached for his hair, and then pulled on his lip. He carried her to the balcony and looked down, his smile growing as he took in the prison on Christmas Eve. Tons of presents, wrapped in paper taken from the local stores, were piled in the corner below. Lanterns sat around the entire room, glowing ominously despite the late evening light pouring through the high windows. Carol sat with the children, reading them a story about the night before Christmas. He couldn't help staring at her face, admiring how sweet her voice was, how gentle she spoke to the kids. She was so compassionate. And beautiful. Inside and out. But also charming, and funny, and strong-hearted – and capable of pushing his buttons whenever she felt like it.

He walked down the stairs with Judith, turning her loose on the carpet-lined floor. She crawled circles around the stairs, pausing sometimes to stare at Carol, and then practicing her standing against the railing. He didn't have to watch her too closely with so many people gathered in C-block. The adults played Pong with her, their eyes on their children, listening to the story, smiling warmly because they probably hadn't had a Christmas last year. It was hard for Daryl to keep himself out of the safe, protective hold of family. Everyone there, in every cell block, in every part of the prison, became closer that night, swapping stories of Christmases past, opening their hearts to the orphans who'd come to the prison completely alone, wrapping presents, finding creative ways to make treats for the kids. He would've loved to feel as safe as they did, one big happy family in a cell block that didn't even look like a cell block anymore, but he was on high alert. He could never forget what waited outside those walls. Dead faces were ingrained too deeply in his memory. He would have to be very, very drunk to forget them.

Daryl moved between the cell block, the courtyard, and the towers, making sure adults stayed where they were supposed to be, and that children didn't sneak off. He continued this routine until it got too dark to see outside. He came back in to the final story of the night, told to kids freshly bathed in their pajamas, munching cookies, sipping Parmalat milk. Elizabeth, who was playing with Judith near the door, was the only one to notice his reentry. She smiled at him, waved the baby's hand, and then turned back to the story and tried to get the nine-month-old to focus. He went to sit on the steps, joining Asante and his young daughter, Efia. His eyes grazed over the gathered children and he marveled at how they'd survived so long in this world. Aiden and Kylie were practically unscathed to have supported their ailing mother until they were able to find the prison. Diane's kids, Sam, Dana, and Richard, were doing well after losing their father. Mason, Hannah, and Seth had managed to survive their obnoxious parents, and they weren't so bad considering what they could've been. Another of the youngest in the prison, Ian, was in the arms of his reclusive mother, Anna, who Daryl rarely saw, and his sister, Teagan, was sitting with Louis, who had appeared withdrawn since his sister was incarcerated for what she'd done.

Six days ago, Eliza had admitted to Carol that a man she didn't know had taken her mother from her, and he said if she ever wanted to see her again, Eliza would have to come to the prison and let the walkers in. It wasn't hard to deduce who the man was – she said he had a patch on his eye and a scary pale-skinned friend who spoke Spanish. Michonne had tried to find him with no luck. Merle had even gone out with her to search for a trail. They did find her mother's body, buried among the leaves, beaten, tormented, and then executed. Both children had been told that she was dead, but they hadn't released Eliza yet. Rick was still unsure about her, no matter how many times Carol got into a screaming match with him about how scared she was, how much she must've wanted to get her mom back.

He didn't know what to think, considering that her actions had caused Owen's death. That little boy could've been alive, and his brother wouldn't be so quiet and withdrawn.

The story ended while Daryl thought about the kids. Many of them came over to hug him and say goodnight, expressing their wishes about what Santa had brought them, admitting what they'd put in the pile for their friends and parents. Cane left Carol's side and came over to Daryl, wrapping both arms around his neck and sitting in his lap. He ran his hand up and down the kid's back, standing to see some of the other children back to their cell blocks. He spoke to his fellow survivors, shared a quiet, sad moment with Dave, who was recovering from the loss of his little brother, and then scooped Judith up in his free arm, carrying both kids back to his cell and setting them down on the bed.

Carol came in a moment later and took Judith, cooing and grinning at her. She had her hand pressed into her lower back again, cringing every now and then. "He needs a bath," she said, motioning to Cane. "Do you mind?"

"No. Let's go, little man." He held his arm out and Cane stood, stepping into Daryl's hold. He kissed Judith on the cheek, provoking giggles, and did the same to Carol, who leaned into his touch and smiled. He knew she would try to get the baby to sleep before he came back with Cane.

The showers were toward the middle of the prison, making them much warmer than those areas that had walls facing the cold winds. It was still freezing in there, though, and there was no such thing as warm water. You had to brave the cold to get clean. Because of that, and because of his attachment to both Daryl and Carol, Cane refused to be put down, and when he was forcefully put down, he just sat there and screamed, demanding to be held again. He wasn't having a good night. Daryl tried to coax him into the shower, even going so far as to drag his naked butt under the stream and force him to stand there, but he couldn't take the screaming. Eventually he gave in, stripped to his underwear, and stood under the faucet with the kid in his arms.

Cane giggled at him, a wonderful sound which was only amplified when Daryl twisted him in and out of the water, smiling, daring him to laugh again. The kid laughed so hard he started snorting. Daryl started laughing, too, and it felt good in his chest. He hadn't laughed so hard in a long time, and he'd never been so tickled by anything in his life.

His entire chest and throat ached by the time he and Cane made it back to the cell, both of them wrapped in the same fluffy beach towel, still smiling. Carol was sitting up with Judith propped beside her, letting her flip through a pop-up book over and over again while navigating her grabby little fingers away from the delicate cardboard pop-ups. He shushed Cane's laughter, and carried him inside, setting him up on the bed and leaving him with the towel. He put on his flannel bottoms and then got Cane dressed in thermal clothes, forcing him to put on socks and a toboggan. He nodded to Carol, who acknowledged their presence without looking up, and took Cane in his arm again, ducking into the next cell over.

His brother was still awake, carving delicate notches into a small piece of wood. He nodded to Daryl as he joined him on the bed and looked a bit longer at the dark-eyed boy peering out from Daryl's neck. The object he was carving was an elephant.

"Girl in D-block likes elephants," he explained, speaking of Kylie, who shared a room with her only living relative, fifteen-year-old Aiden.

Daryl sat with him for a while, talking about trivial things, letting the little boy whose arms were wrapped tight around his neck, whose entire body fit against his chest, fall asleep slowly. Surprisingly, the only racist comment out of Merle was, "So, you adoptin' out of Africa now?" He seem to like the kid, if only because they could both relate to his life. Daryl was determined to be a better father to him than Marcus, and Merle could see that. He knew that too much harassment would get him an old-school fist-fight.

It was peaceful, being there with Merle. He'd calmed a lot since the end of the world came, realizing that people were essential to survival, and that they weren't all bad. That little girl thought he was the coolest thing in the world. Other group members showed him respect, offered him friendship. He was rearing those frogs near the front, bringing in small game to make up the stew for the night, providing for these people selflessly. Daryl enjoyed this side of him.

Around eleven he called it a night, carrying the sleeping toddler back to his own cell and finding Carol asleep. Rick had come to pick up Judith already. He took the outside of the bed, placing Cane between them and curling toward the door. He let his mind wander far away from the excitement the children felt, far from the whispers echoing up and down the hallway – excited kids telling their parents how many hours away Christmas was. He went back to his own childhood, to the Christmases he remembered spending close to the water, hoping the ice didn't break when it came his turn to skate across. He faded away before he could think of anything else.

XxX

It was only about seven in the morning when the first kid woke up and created a chain reaction throughout the prison. The other cell blocks were cleared as everyone came to gather in the bottom of C-block, awaiting the moment when those presents would be torn through by the little ones. Daryl woke to the unhappy screaming of Madeline down the hall. Carol had already left the cell, and he could hear her voice drifting from downstairs. Cane had managed to migrate onto the pillows and mash his foot into Daryl's cheek; as soon as he woke up, Daryl prodded the toddler into consciousness and reminded him that it was Christmas.

He was up and downstairs before Daryl could finish stretching. As he came out he saw Tyreese and Sasha stacking up presents in front of each kid, delivering boxes to adults, and smiling when they found their own present in the monumental pile. He came down to sit with Carol, catching Cane in both arms each time he zipped back and forth from his own pile. Carol leaned into his arm and kissed his cheek. Dave sat with them and acknowledged everything Cane said, though his face was still ghostly and mournful. Rick sat nearby and directed Judith in the tearing of her gift wrap. He was pleased to see Carl sitting right beside his father, reverting to the little boy he'd been when this had all started, getting grins and arm-hugs from his father at every turn.

Most of the kids got CD players, dolls, action figures, small bikes, board games, and candy, leading to excited squeals and grins that filled the room with happiness. Judith cared more for tearing the paper than what was inside the boxes, as did the other babies, but as the ages went up, the kids appreciated what they were given because they knew how little the world had left in it. He noticed in the middle of the fun that Carol had brought Eliza over from her cell, and that the little girl was enjoying her presents with her brother. He mentioned that they should let her move back in with Alejandra, if her aunt agreed.

The adults opened their presents last, left alone as the kids ran around the prison with whatever they'd gotten. Cane remained in Daryl's lap, helping him open a few boxes, admiring each of the things he'd gotten from close friends. Carol had, at some point, managed to find two pristine boltcutter broadheads – badass metal attachments for his crossbow, with three blades, all of them firing from a crossbow in unison to do some serious damage to whatever he aimed at – and a sexy night vision scope, which he spent a little too long admiring. His brother had carved him thirty new arrows, each of which were stained and sanded. He got drawings from some of the kids, some great skipping stones from Carl, and a fishing net from Rick, though he took that as a hint to wrangle up some fish for their next supper.

He helped Carol put on a necklace he'd found for her – bronze, with a small, silver heart attached to sit right over her own heart. He also ended up carrying everything Cane got back up to his cell and dumping it on the bed, making a second trip to help Rick bring up Judith's plunder, and a third trip for the clothes and baby stuff everyone had gotten for Carol. He thanked his brother, who was quite happy with the special interest magazines he'd commandeered from a local convenience store – he was already wearing the thick dark brown hunting jacket Carol had gotten him (with Daryl's assistance, of course), under threat of death. Apparently she thought he didn't dress warmly enough.

When he wasn't chasing Judith around, or trying out his new scope, he was thinking about the lengths the survivors went to give each other a good Christmas. He knew that several outings had occurred in the two weeks following his return; they'd pillaged clothing stores, jewelry stores, hunting stores, and even places where paper, markers, and paints were sold. What would've been useless to anyone raiding those stores before became the best part of their holiday.


	39. Desecrated

Carol sat on the second-story balcony overlooking the first prison block, which had been cleared, but never occupied. Solitary confinement. Here, the ceilings were vaulted, the doors sealed with thick steel panels, the rooms cold, empty, and dark. Ironically, this was the only place she could go to be alone. For days her health had been declining. The closer she got to nine months of pregnancy, the dizzier she became, the harder it was to stand and walk, the weaker her body felt, and the more she vomited. Between nauseas spells and spiking blood pressure, Hershel did every type of test he could think of – he consulted medical books he'd collected, he attached machines to her arms, draining the only generators they had. His diagnoses was what she'd feared from the beginning. She was dying. She wasn't capable of carrying another child to term, and she sure as hell wouldn't be able to deliver. But she was the only one who seemed to accept it. Daryl was in a constant state of anger, yelling at Hershel, yelling at Rick, yelling at whoever tried to comfort him – she was his target most of the time. He couldn't stand how somber she was. He wanted her to fight, and when she told him she was done fighting, he got pissed and yelled some more.

She had locked herself into this cell block specifically so that he couldn't find her, and even if he got to the door, she could just continue into the infirmary until she couldn't hear his voice. Here the outside was just as depressing as her insides, giving her temporary relief from her thoughts. Any amount of happiness turned into a storm cloud. She was alone here, but simple silence couldn't spare her from the pain coursing through her veins. She was weak, achy, besieged by a migraine, and every now and then one of her muscles cramped and brought tears to her eyes.

But, alone, she could just sit there and take it. With Hershel or Daryl in the room, she felt guilty for upsetting them, for using up painkillers that would've been more useful elsewhere, for snapping at them both. Pain brought on anger and spite, the kind that she couldn't suppress. Daryl wasn't the only one supremely pissed about the situation. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right. She was being put through the same shit again, and for what? To give birth to a dead baby? To hold it in her arms and feel nothing but emptiness because it just reminded her of the little girl she'd failed? To have a child, and then die herself, never to feel its warmth, to hear its laugh, to watch it walk? This world was cold. She expected something horrible to happen. She knew it had to. Only weeks ago, before her sickness had begun, Karen and Tyreese's baby had come down with a vicious cold, which escalated into an upper respiratory infection. Madeline was still teetering between life and death. It seemed to Carol that she wouldn't even make it that far.

Two hours into her staring contest with the far wall, the door jiggled, and then someone knocked. It was Daryl. She heard him huff out a frustrated breath, and then she heard his keys moving. She'd forgotten about those damn keys. She had every intention to get up and migrate away from him like a bitter child, but as she tried to pull herself up, a sharp pain went into her skull and made her drop back down. Daryl took the steps two at a time and jogged to her side. "You alright?"

She a deep breath and shook her head, wrapping her arms around the bars and leaning her face into them. She stared at the wall again, tracing the patterns in a dried blood stain. He sat beside her and pulled out his knife to pick dirt from his fingernails. From his words and his presence, she could tell that their earlier fight – antagonized by her insistence that Hershel perform a C-section to save the baby – had faded from his mind. He was calmer, his tone softer. Whatever he was thinking about, it was far away from this prison, and even further from her.

She was sure he'd come to talk her off the ledge again, that he would go into some long rant about how much he life meant to the group, and then he'd start getting angry at her responses – he hated it when her low self-esteem showed. She couldn't help it. She was feeling vulnerable, and the only thing she could say to him was 'no one needs me.' She expected an argument out of him, but all he did was sit there and play with that knife of his. He didn't speak. He didn't look at her. He didn't even object when she started getting up again.

It took her two full minutes to get to her feet. She stood against the railing and watched him, analyzing the deep look on his face. He seemed to have come to a decision, and she wanted to know what it was. She touched the top of his head, prompting him to turn toward her, and she narrowed her eyes questioningly.

He jumped to his feet and, still fiddling with his knife to avoid looking at her, he said, "I did a lot of thinkin' while you were meditating out here. I know you don't think you're gonna make it – that's _bullshit_." He folded the knife and stored it in his pocket, crossing his arms and staring into her eyes. He looked combative, ready to start another fight, burning through-and-through with what was on his mind. She felt the emotion of his words like a slap to the face. "That's bullshit and you know it. You're not gonna die. You _want_ to die."

"That so?" she responded coldly, every part of her mind freezing into that same angry, bitter mood, her tone cutting, her eyebrows drawn down challengingly.

"Yeah, you don't wanna put the work in, or you got some kind of residual fear after _Sophia_," – it had been a long time, but Carol still flinched at that name. Hearing him say it in that tone made her want to strike him – "and now you're afraid to be a mom. You gotta suck that shit up and stop _acting_ like this."

"You think I'm making this up?" she demanded. Her skin felt like it was on fire. How could he be so stupid? So careless? So cold? Did he think she was living like this because she thought it would get her more attention? Did he think this was all some kind of act for _his_ benefit? He only stared at her as if agreeing with her conclusion, his jaw tight, his fists clenched.

"You son of a bitch," she growled, taking a step away from him. "Believe what you want. These last couple of days with you have been _hell_. I'm glad you finally gave me a reason to walk away." She turned, lifted her foot to take another step, and then her ankle gave way and she hit her knees. A tremor went through her body. Daryl came to her side, seeming irritated, and grabbed her shoulder to help her up. Her skin turned to raw nerves in his hands. She screamed, the muscles in her stomach convulsing, and the world blacked out for several precious seconds.

It was time.

XxX

Carol opened her eyes and took a deep breath. Blood erupted from her lungs and dribbled down her chin, pooling below her breasts. Her heart sped each time a contraction rolled through her stomach, forcing her hands to clench, her jaw to lock, and her toes to curl. Hershel hovered over her, wiping the blood away, cleaning the sweat from her forehead; soon it switched to Maggie, his most reliable assistant, and he waited at the other end of the bed. He was telling her to push. She did what he said. She had given birth before, but this time the pain was much more vivid – as the baby came out, she felt it ripping her body open. She felt blood draining. She felt lightheaded, and then black dots danced all over the room.

Finally she was able to relax. The baby was out. Hershel patted its back until it started screaming in protest. He cleaned the blood from its body and wrapped it in a little white blanket. She already had her arms out as he came back to her head, beaming down at her, transferring the warm, wet thing into her grip. She stared at its little face, sweet, plump, and bright red. It screamed with its jaws wide open, its toothless gums shown proudly, its little button nose flaring. She readjusted the blankets around it, helped to sit up by Hershel, and stroked its cheek with her thumb.

"It's a girl," Hershel murmured to her.

Carol swallowed hard, pushing back the blood that was building up inside. Tears sprung from her eyes. She had the most vivid recollection of Sophia suddenly – holding her that first day, so careful because she was so small, kissing her sweet face, cradling her when she was awake and asleep, and marveling at her beauty and perfection. Only moments later she was cold again. Her emotions drained out, just like her blood. This was not her Sophia. She stared at the baby, stroked its cheek, listened to it cry, but she couldn't see it as _her_ baby. What was this thing Hershel had given her? Wasn't she supposed to love it already?

The room got dark. She felt the weight of the baby vanish. She heard Daryl rush to her side, demanding to know what was happening. Her eyes opened again and she shook herself, trying to stay awake. "It's alright," Hershel said, rocking the baby gently in both arms. He looked at Daryl, nodding. "She's tired. She should rest. Come and meet your daughter."

"She's not…? Is she gonna die?"

"No." He smiled at Daryl, and then at Carol. "No, you're gonna live, and so is the baby."

Suddenly, the entire cell block shook beneath them.

XxX

Desecrated. How else could he describe what had happened to their home? Everything they'd build up had been torn down in a matter of minutes, and, within an hour, it was burning. Suddenly the sky was full of ashes. Pieces of his friends lay scattered in the fields, stepped on by fleeing survivors, consumed by invading walkers. Life, happiness, and safety had just been ripped from under them, leaving nothing, taking everything. It had been so long since they'd been forced to run, he almost couldn't get his feet to move. He stood there, oblivious to the gunfire, vehicles sweeping by him, the scattered remnants of the group running in all directions, and stared at the gaping door which led to his home. _Home_. He'd had one. It was so close to him now he almost didn't understand why he couldn't just walk in and make everything right. That was where his soul pulled him. Home. To the crying child he'd seen for only moments, who was lost to him now. Home. To the woman who loved him, who looked at him with nothing but kindness… who was blown to bits, that compassionate mind gone, those beautiful eyes burned into nothing. He was alone, standing outside of his home, all of the blankness in his mind adding up to a crippling wave of loss and exhaustion. What was all of this for? Why had they built this place, just to have it burn? How could one man take it from them in just these few moments? And how could he lose so much work, so much love, so much _life_, in the time it took a hand-made bomb to detonate?

He was ripped off of the gravel road by his brother, who screamed something at him. Blood covered his face. His forehead was slashed open, pink flesh protruding from beneath his skin. He held Daryl by the arm and dragged him to one of the vehicles, one that Daryl hadn't seen drive up. He didn't see much of anything except the prison, where the bodies of his family lay, where he wanted to go and give himself up to the first walker he saw. He was thrown into a leathery backseat, forced upright by Michonne, who reached past him to shut the door, and then the car jumped into motion. His head struck the back. He turned frantically, standing on his knees to stare out the window. They were leaving the prison.

"No! Go back!" he demanded, falling with all of his weight onto the door. The child lock was on. Hands came from every direction to keep him from escaping. "No! Let me out! I want to die!" he screamed, bashing his head against the closest object. It was someone's skull. "I want to die! I want to die!" His voice became raspy. Blood mixed with his breath. "Stop the fucking _car_, Merle! Stop _driving_! Let me _out_!"

He couldn't get out. Not just out of the car, but out of his own mind. Out of his memories. Eventually the struggle was too much and he went limp in the strong hold of whoever had climbed into the backseat with him. It was almost suffocating. He saw the explosion over and over again, trying to peer through that rubble, trying to turn around and go back the way he'd came, to never leave her in that cell. But he couldn't turn around. Each time he took the same path, heard the baby crying, and then he heard another bomb detonate at the foundation. He heard tons of rubble falling down to crush them both. Death. He felt it over and over again. He couldn't even remember the baby's face. He couldn't even remember what she'd said to him – was it a son? A daughter? He hadn't checked. He hadn't thought about it. He'd only been glad for its life.

He sunk down in the seat, his eyes shut like bear traps, his fists clenched at his sides. He heard the people around him and he knew who they were, but he made no effort to talk to them. He didn't want to know. He didn't want to be alive. He didn't want to leave the prison because there would never be another place like it.

Rick was demanding that Merle turn the car around. His son wasn't with them, and his daughter had been with Beth, who was in C-block when it came crumbling down. He heard Merle arguing with him, both of them screaming at the tops of their lungs, their voices so loud they nearly drowned Michonne's out. Tyreese was in the back seat with Daryl. He had been the one holding him, and now he made the arrangement uncomfortable and crowded. He wasn't arguing, only sobbing softly to himself. Cane kept pulling on his shirt from Michonne's lap, trying anything to get his attention, but Daryl didn't look at him. He couldn't. He wished the stupid kid was dead. He wished he hadn't grabbed him after the explosion. He wished they'd all died in the collapse.

There was so much noise, so much disagreement, so much friction, and yet they raced on at over a hundred miles an hour, beating the evening sun, swerving down an empty highway. No one tried to climb out. As much as he argued, Rick didn't grab for the wheel or try to hit the brakes. He said he wanted to go back, but Daryl knew he didn't. He wanted to grieve, and yelling was how he did it. Daryl couldn't figure out what he was supposed to be doing.

It went on like that until the sun fell and rose again. They ran out of gas. Daryl got up and walked around for a while, not paying attention to where he was going, only to be guided back to the car by his brother, who'd traced his every move. He found a small fire near the trunk. Tyreese was sitting by it, staring into the flame, and Michonne was trying to comfort Cane, who sobbed and twisted away from her. As Daryl approached, the kid ran toward him. Daryl avoided him, said something only a jackass would say, and went straight to Rick, who stood against the car, both hands on the hood.

"We have to go back," he said. For all the walking he'd done, he couldn't think of a better destination than the one they'd left. His reason for existing was gone, and his life suddenly became a long, dark tunnel with no light at the end, but he _knew_ the prison. It was his only anchor. He began to feel that if he got back there, everything would be alright. He'd find a way to be alright. It was the only option left, the only path that made sense.

Rick nodded slowly, a tear dropping to the car. He didn't say anything. Daryl could feel his grief radiating outward. His own seemed to pale now that he had this dim, delusional hope in his head. He was trying to get past the idea that she was dead, that their child was dead – maybe they'd survived the explosion. Maybe everyone had. Though that kind of hope bordered on complete fantasy, it was all he had to cling to. Rick had no such delusion.

XxX

Carol dragged herself a few more steps and then rested on a log, beckoning to Maggie, who rushed to her side and handed her some water. Carol gave her the baby, turning to cough out the debris she'd inhaled during the explosions. Her daughter was returned to her arms immediately as Maggie went to help Beth clear out Judith's throat – she was refusing water, but coughing badly. Carl paced in front of her, his hands on his head, his eyes red from crying. His dog had been crushed as she tried to get to them. Carol had nothing to say to him, nothing comforting. She was worrying about Daryl, wondering if he was dead, staring down at her daughter's face and seeing only his. How would she go on? How would they survive? What was the point?

So far, the death toll was high. Anita McLeod had escaped with them, but she was unable to get far. She had a gash in her thigh that led straight to an artery. She bled out in an hour. The emptiness in Maggie's face came from the baby that had been sleeping in her cell when the bombs went off. Alex would've died instantly. Diane Anders' twins weren't with her when she came running through the forest, her five-year-old clutched in her arms – one was hit with falling metal, and the other refused to leave their sibling. She sobbed uncontrollably, holding her son, who bled from a wound on his forehead, tightly against her chest. Asher and Rosemary's kids found the group, but Mason, the oldest, informed them that their parents didn't make it. They all had thousand-mile stares as they sat huddled together nearby. Fortunately, everyone had made it out of E-block, and, as day wore on to evening, and evening to night, they went as trained to the meeting place – Rick had always been afraid something like this would happen, and he was right.

When it was evident that no one else was coming, Carol got a sick feeling in her stomach. Where were Daryl and his brother? Where was Rick? Where was Michonne? Where was Tyreese? Karen was trying to quiet her sick child, but without him, she seemed to be falling apart. Everything seemed to be falling apart.

"We have to go back to the prison." Glenn was the only one to say what was on everyone's minds. He wanted to sweep for more bombs, to try and find the Governor, who they all suspected was behind this vicious attack. Whatever his reasons, he was a dead man when one of them managed to track him down. But how had he gotten in? Was there another mole? Could Eliza have possibly planted the two bombs that tore apart their happy family?

The little girl, her brother, and her aunt had made it out, all of them just as terrified as the other survivors, so Carol had to doubt that she was involved. An attack of that caliber could only be orchestrated by an adult. Her eyes scanned the clearing suddenly and she caught Asante staring at her. He looked away quickly, but she caught guilt in his expression.

Could it be?


	40. Assault

Carol huddled in a corner near the back edge of the C-block, a metal door her only protection from several walkers who strained to sink their teeth into her. She cried out frantically for someone to help her, raising her voice above the screaming of the newborn clutched against her chest. Slowly, the metal ground against the crumbling stone and the bars came closer to her, allowing the walkers' groping hands to clutch at her clothing. She turned her back to them, protecting the baby, and pressed her face into the cobwebs, sobbing out of fear and pain. On her way in, she'd gashed her shin, and then bumped a piece of rebar that jutted out of the wall, bruising her hip. Her entire leg was on fire, dripping blood, calling the walkers to her.

Eventually Glenn pulled the undead from the door and yanked it open, guiding her to another part of the dangerously crippled structure. She had been separated, but now she ran straight for the safety of the group. Her friends were huddled by the exit, debating whether or not they should head for another cell block, wondering how far the damage extended. The decision was made automatically when three walkers stumbled inside. Everyone turned and rushed through the hallway, which was pitch black. The explosion had knocked the candles down, and they'd been extinguished as water ran from ruined pipes. Glenn shut the door behind them and secured it, and then he rushed ahead, shoulder-to-shoulder with Carl, to evaluate the damage to the other cell blocks. Carol went from jogging to walking, and then to moving one foot at a time, sluggish, losing the energy adrenaline had given her. Hershel stayed with her, egging her on, and Sugar, who'd popped out of one of the cells as they reentered the prison, walked patiently beside her, having grown into a sizeable pup over the last few months. She was guarding, every now and then letting out a low, threatening growl which echoed through the hall.

The two closest cell blocks, D-block and E-block, were undamaged. Carol stumbled into a cell with Beth and Maggie. Judith was set beside her, crying nonstop, and Beth took the baby from Carol's arms, relieving her of the weight and the responsibility. She wrapped one arm around Judith and shushed her, murmuring that everything was going to be alright, mostly unaware of how scary everyone looked covered in dust, blood, and tears. Hershel buzzed in and out, ordering Maggie to different places, rearranging the cells to get the badly injured in one cluster. He pulled Carol to that cluster and forced her into the first bed, checking her eyes, her ears, and the organs that had recently been ripped into two pieces. She was still bleeding. He thought it might be internal, but said he could do nothing to stop it. His voice was quiet, stressed, and anxious.

Glenn organized a group of the uninjured to go back to C-block and locate the breach. He came by her room before they left, assured her that Daryl was coming back, and then vanished like a cloud of smoke. Everything was rushing by in Carol's mind. She was feeling dizzy again, losing blood, becoming dehydrated, and trying to keep a grip on reality. Hershel kept her steady, put an IV into her arm, and continued to rush in and out, bringing back news of the others.

She was glad to hear that no one else would die. The most serious cases were the Madeline and Carol, and at least one of them had a treatable condition. She didn't think much of her own fate, she only let herself be grateful that Tyreese and Karen would come through this with their daughter. She was also happy for Carl, who had been taking care of Judith since she was moved to this new room. He came by to ask Hershel about a dab of blood poking through the bandages on the baby's leg – when he saw her, he stared, wide-eyed, and then left immediately.

Considering what she'd been through in the last few hours, Carol knew that she was lucky to be alive for only this short time. She got to see that they were safe. What more could she ask for? And the baby, the one somewhere else in the cell block, still screaming, was alive and healthy, even if she didn't want to look at its face. When Daryl came home, he could have her. He could be happy. That was all she wanted.

Noticing this resignation in her, Hershel sat beside her and ran his hand over her arm, shaking his head softly. "You warned me this would happen. I think… if we can get enough blood back into your system, we can combat the loss until your body can mend itself. I can perform a small surgery to find the tear and attempt to mend it, but… it's risky. Everything I do at this point is risky."

"Do it," she whispered, catching his hand and squeezing it. She had no hope herself, but if she could live, if that was even an option, she owed it to Daryl to try it. "My blood is AB. Ask Sasha or Elizabeth." He was already getting up when she came around to the end of her sentence. "This isn't your fault, Hershel. If I die, it's nobody's fault, okay?"

He turned slightly, his expression grim, and then he gave her a tender, fatherly smile and cupped her cheek. "You're not gonna die. I won't let you. I want to see you come back from this – from everything that's happened. That baby in there is your shot. You're gonna survive this, and you're gonna be her mom, and you're gonna make Daryl a happy man. I will not lose another friend."

She placed her hand over his and nodded, a little tearful as his words struck her heart. How had their group managed to gather so many amazing people? But that small amount of love was crushed when she thought of being a mother again. That word… it bothered her. The last child to call her 'mom' had died a horrible death, all alone in the woods, and she'd become one of those things. Carol never got to say goodbye, never got to kiss her cheek again, never got to hold her and tell her everything was going to be alright. She was almost positive this child would meet the same fate. How would this baby girl react when Carol flinched at being called mommy? Would she realize that Carol didn't want her? That she had looked at her so coldly, so darkly? How would she feel now if she knew a sickness rose up in Carol's stomach at the thought of taking the baby into her cell and trying to raise it?

She sat up, disgusted with herself. The room spun, but soon settled at a slightly tilted angle. Whatever was going on in her head, it was out of her control. She only had one responsibility now, and that didn't involve the baby – she had to _live_. She welcomed the IV in her arm, and her new bunkmate, Sasha, who spoke softly about the others. There was still no sign of the missing men and Michonne, and no sign of little Cane, but there was hope amongst the survivors. The breach had been minimal, the damage repairable, and the bodies of their friends had been taken out to be buried. It turned out all of the walkers in the yard and in the prison had come from the basement level, where a wall had been torn down and the rotting corpse of a deer had been placed. It was all a trap, a ruse to get them to split up and panic. It would've killed a lot more, but Carol knew the Governor – or whoever organized the attack – would've underestimated the organization at the very core of the group. Most of them had survived. Most of them were together.

Hershel couldn't put her out for the surgery, but he numbed the area with some local anesthetics and went to work anyway. She sat propped up against Dave, her hand locked in his, her face buried in his beefy neck, and held back a scream while the knife cut deep into her flesh. The pressure made her feel sick, and the deeper he cut, the less numb she was. Pinches of pain erupted here and there, making her muscles jump, and forcing Hershel to draw away until she could control herself. It lasted a while in her mind, but it was only minutes later that he requested his stitch-kit. He mended something, saying 'womb' to himself, and then he began to stitch the incision.

"You won't be having any more children," he said quietly, placing his tools on a towel nearby. He pulled off his bloody gloves and set them down as well, his eyebrows drawn in the way they always were when he was giving his medical opinion. "I saw a similar wound in a cow who had recently given birth – it may take you a while to recover, but I believe I found the source of the bleeding. Those stitches will dissolve as the wound heals, inside and out."

Carol pulled her hand out of Dave's, looking up and smiling at him gratefully. He nodded, helped her into a comfortable position on the pillows brought in for her, and then ducked out of the room. Hershel packed up his supplies and divvied out some pills, making her swallow a strange assortment of colors and shapes. She was pretty sure one was a sugar pill. Sasha stayed to donate two pints of blood, and then she was helped back to her room by Hershel, who thanked her all the way down the hall. Carol relaxed into the hard mattress, her eyes rolling shut momentarily. She pictured Daryl's face, how worried he would be if he was there.

Hershel came back in with Beth, directing her to Carol. "Here, just leave her with us."

Sitting up immediately and holding her arms out, Carol accepted her daughter, smiling gratefully at the young girl who'd stepped up to take care of her. No matter what she'd felt before, she still felt a bit possessive. Her feelings about the kid didn't matter – it mattered that this was Daryl's daughter, and she would do anything to protect her.

"Spend some time with her. Get to know her. I'll be in the next room if you need anything."

She struggled to sit up, careful of fresh stitches, and held the girl firmly in both arms, staring down at her face. She was asleep, tiny eyes flickering under paper-thin eyelids. Carol realized that she hadn't even looked at the baby's eyes yet. Watching her now, Carol equated a lot of the baby's features to Sophia's at the time of her birth. She had that pretty rounded face, Carol's nose, pouty little lips, and a small amount of brown hair dusting her delicate skull. Her little hands were balled into fists, sometimes stretching out. Carol marveled at how fragile her fingers were. She was much smaller than Sophia had been, though still a good weight, and with a healthy complexion. Hershel was wrong when he said the baby was perfectly healthy. She was perfect _and_ healthy.

Four gunshots rang out and someone screamed.

Carol struggled out of bed immediately, clutching her daughter, slamming the door shut and then backing into the corner. Her mind raced. She heard two sets of footsteps down the hall and a taunting laugh. A body had hit the floor. Someone was dead, and it wasn't a walker. And then she heard his voice, dark and clear, at the cell door. She heard Judith crying.

"One more move, _Glenn_, and this girl here gets a bullet in her brain. I advise you stay over there." The door swung open. The Governor stepped inside, a broad smile on his face. She had never seen him this close, and now that she was staring right at him, she could see the insanity in his eyes. He had Judith in his arm, a revolved pointed at her head, his partner Martinez lingering behind him, watching the survivors outside of the cell with his rifle aimed.

The Governor was smiling at her, but why? He walked closer, tilting his head, looking at the baby in her arms. "Here's the deal. We trade kids and no one gets hurt."

"W-w-what?"

"I want your daughter," he clarified, his voice dry, full of arrogance and sarcasm. "I'll even let you come. I'll just put this one on the bed over there and me and you can walk outta here in one piece. How's that sound?"

"Like you can go to hell."

He sighed, took another step toward her, and pressed the revolved right to Judith's temple. Carol's heart jumped as the little girl screamed, her arms reaching uselessly for her. She swallowed her fear, her confusion, and resolved to find a way out of this, even if it meant leaving the prison to keep that baby alive. She didn't put it past him. She knew he would do it. But what did he want with her? What did he want with her daughter? Last time she heard, he had a grudge against Michonne – how did that transfer?

"F-f-f-fine, but put her down," she stuttered, motioning to the bed. "I'll go with you."

"Good choice." He placed Judith gently on the bed and then grabbed her, holding her roughly with an arm around her neck, pointing the gun at the baby's back. His lip curled and his voice turned to dripping venom. "_Walk_."

Without the vaguest idea of what was happening, why he'd come here, or why he'd attacked the prison, Carol walked with him through a row of her friends, who stared at them both, terrified. They stepped over Jackson's body, which spilled a pool of reflective blood across the cold ground, and then left the cell block. In the hallway, he picked up the pace, forcing her to run with the baby in her arms, the point of the gun resting in her lower back. Martinez ran behind them, constantly twisting, listening, prepared to shoot if anyone followed which, of course, they did. She saw a flash of light and then the machine gun went off. She heard someone get hit. The Governor pushed her faster around the corner and then forced her down the stairs into the basement.

"Where are we going?" she asked as he directed her outside.

The cold struck her immediately. He ordered Martinez to point his gun at her while he shrugged off his jacket and offered it up. She shook her head, but he insisted, holding it out by one finger, his eyebrow cocked. She put on the coat, zipped it, and kept the baby inside with one arm, using the other to navigate the forest as they continued their escape – and her kidnapping.

Eventually they came upon a jeep, covered by a military-style tarp, containing another passenger. Eliza. She started crying when she saw Carol. She knew immediately that Eliza had been reporting to the Governor, and that she'd probably been the one to plant the bombs. She knew that the Governor had come into the prison with a specific task in mind – he didn't dawdle, he didn't hesitate. Her baby was his target. That meant Eliza had told him she had gone into labor. That meant this little girl was the reason for the kidnapping – Eliza was the reason she wasn't in her own cell right now with Daryl, watching as he cooed over their child.

Still, she was a scared little girl. Whatever the Governor had done to her to make her cooperate, whatever he had threatened her with, it was enough to make her hurt her friends and, accidentally, her little brother. She cried into Carol's side, hushed by the Governor, who put on a sympathetic face – Carol could see the darkness, and it made the girl cry harder, but quieter. The baby was wide awake against her chest, seeking out a nipple, and she had to readjust to offer it, shutting the coat around her. The Governor watched her every move with his one good eye, observing her, creeping her out. He hadn't said anything since Martinez had started driving, only sat with them in the truck-hybrid back, but his gaze was enough to convince her he had a plan.

XxX

They came back to an empty courtyard, a field with a few more bodies waiting to be laid to rest, and a trashed C-block. They wove their way among the debris and into the hallway, where a message was waiting for them. D-block. Sharing an uneasy glance with his companions, Daryl went through the door first, scanning the cell block for any sign of Carol. Those inside froze. His eyes shifted downward. A body lay on the floor.

Shot?

"What happened?" he demanded, stepping closer, but avoiding the pool of blood. He almost felt that he knew. It almost occurred to him, so close, but so distant. But his mind refused to think it. He couldn't imagine it – it was just too horrible.

Coming from amongst the others, Glenn was the first to speak. "I-I-I… we had no idea… no one was armed… He just came in… he had Judith."

Rick burst to the front and grabbed the man's shoulders, tears in his eyes. "What? Where is she? Glenn… don't tell me. Please, don't let her be…"

"She's fine," Hershel interrupted, coming out of the cell at the end of the block. He was followed by Beth, who had the baby in both arms. The little girl reached immediately for her father and started screaming again. He ran to her, took her in both arms, and held her tightly, shushing her, pressing his lips to the top of her head. Carl came out just then and hugged his father around the waist, also sobbing, admitting how terrified he was.

But no one else went into reunion-mode. Daryl waited, staring at Glenn, aware that the kid had more to say. He was looking at Daryl like he was afraid of being bitten by him. "I'm sorry… he was gonna kill Judith… Carol went with him… he said… he said he wanted the baby."

When Glenn said '_the_ baby,' Daryl thought immediately of Judith, Madeline, and Alex, but then his mind shifted and he tried to come to terms with the fact that this was _his_ baby. The Governor had come to take _his_ baby. But why? What did he want with Carol and the baby? Why the hell did he go through all this trouble to take her away? He obviously didn't want her dead. He would've killed her in cold blood. Why _take_ her?

His mind slowly processing what locked his fists in only seconds, Daryl turned to his brother, and to his friend, Michonne. He looked at both of them, aware of the dense emotions flowing through his face, aware of his own lack of self-control at the moment. He focused on his brother, putting his hands on the taller man's shoulders, squeezing, knowing that he couldn't do any damage to the muscles resting there.

Merle waited, watching him intently, and then he put his hand on the back of Daryl's head and pressed their foreheads together. "We'll get her back," he breathed.


	41. Captivity

It could've been days. That was her first thought as she awakened in a small, dark room, her body covered in thick blankets, her head resting on a soft, stained pillow. She stared around, analyzing the bright crack in the door only three feet from her face, noting the chains hanging down and the lack of a doorknob. It was just a big hole through which she could see a dim room much larger than this one. The last thing she remembered was riding for hours in the back of that jeep, and then the Governor forcing her baby out of her arms, binding her, gagging her, covering her face, and laying her down in the floorboard. She was not conscious for long.

She pulled herself into a sitting position, her head spinning from lack of food and water, and the draining of blood after giving birth. She peered through the hole into the other room, seeing clearly that they were in a house, and that the Governor wasn't there. Eliza sat in a recliner, her knees hugged to her chest, staring at the wall but not seeing it. Carol shifted a little and saw Martinez sitting on the couch, the baby in his arms, cradling it delicately while keeping an eye on the little girl. She wasn't as disgusted as she would've been if the Governor had been holding her daughter, but she was still afraid for her. She didn't know that man. She didn't know his heart.

She tapped on the door, clearing her throat and calling out. "I need to feed her."

Martinez's head turned to the side as he listened, and he nodded to himself. He got up, came over to the door, and slid the key through the hole, crouching to look at her. "Don't try anything stupid. We're in the middle of nowhere – running ain't gonna get you jack shit."

She nodded, grasping for the key and then using both of her shaking hands to undo the lock. He pulled the door open and stepped back to lay the baby on the couch, coming over immediately to grab her by the underarm and help her up. She stumbled, still recovery from her daughter's traumatic birth, but made her way determinedly to the couch. As she was sitting down, finally lifting the sniffling baby into her arms, the door opened and the Governor returned.

He cocked an eye at Martinez, but held up a hand and didn't let him explain. "It's alright. She's not a prisoner. She's family now." He walked over, running his hand along the chair where Eliza sat. The little girl shivered and shut her eyes, a tear rolling down her cheek. He smiled at her, and then sat beside Carol, tilting his head in that sinister way he had. "Your bedroom is the one at the end of the hall. I made it up special for you. Sorry about the closet. We had to go out for a while, and I wanted to make sure you'd be… safe."

Carol didn't respond. She pulled away when he put his arm around her shoulders, her skin crawling, but she relented when his face turned from country gentleman to cold-blooded killer. He ran his index finger over the baby's cheek, and then hers, squeezing her shoulders. "Martinez, put Eliza to bed for me. It's almost sundown. Time for little girls to close their eyes."

She felt that his words had double meaning. She turned to watch his lackey fulfill his orders – the other man was much gentler, guiding Eliza toward the first room on the right and locking her inside. They'd installed padlocks on the doors. He stood there staring at the door for a moment, his hand on the lock, and then he turned back toward them. His eyes met Carol's and she saw confliction. Did he even know why he did the things he did? As he came back, he grabbed his rifle from the table and shrugged it onto his back. "I'll take watch on the roof."

Once he was gone, the air in the room felt colder, like he was the very last candle in a vast cave, and now that he'd willingly let his flame die, Carol waited alone in the dark, a cold man's arm around her shoulders, his hand on her child. She sat stiffly beside him for quite a while, her stomach growling, her daughter alternating between sleeping and twisting fitfully in her arms. She didn't cry. It was like she knew enough to spare her mother the wrath of the Governor. She had seen only glimpses of his fractured mind, shining through when she did something he didn't like, and she didn't want to make him angry. He might kill her. He might kill the baby.

He got up after several hours, when the sun had gone down fully, and the only light came from a lantern glowing softly on the table. The windows were covered with large wooden boards, their splinters illuminated, and it seemed that every crack and crevice was sealed. The only way out was to go out of the hatch Martinez had taken, but, as he sat vigilantly nearby, it couldn't serve as a viable escape plan. Carol found herself observing every part of the small house as she was called into the kitchen. He gave her a pack of crackers, a stick of jerky, and a can of processed cheese. As hungry as she was, those things were extremely valuable.

"Go on to your bedroom. I won't lock you in just yet – figure you want some privacy, though. I laid out some clean clothes for you, and Martinez picked up some toys for the baby. Pick what you like." He sounded so sincere, but she heard everything with a sinister undertone.

She walked slowly down the hall, glancing at Eliza's door, feeling sorry for the little girl all alone in there. What had the Governor done to her to make her flinch every time he spoke? Her thoughts were vile. She knew what he'd done to Maggie, how he'd exerted his dominance like some kind of animal, terrifying her, degrading her. She also thought of her daughter, and her own fate, as she crossed the threshold of the room at the end of the hall and found what the Governor had left for her. She would've preferred the closet.

It was a typical room for a small house in a forested area – not a lot of floor space, filled with hand-carved furniture, decorated with animal-themed drapes, carpets, and pictures. It was constructed of wood and cinderblock, which joined together with dry cement. Not the prettiest of places, but free of draft, and moderately warm because of the wooly carpets. She imagined whoever had lived here before was a lover of nature, a child of the '70s, and had a love for history, considering how old the dresser was. But it was much different now. The Governor had nailed the windows shut, sealed them with some kind of construction-grade glue, and laid metal grates across both sides of the glass panes. The bed was mounted to the floor, as was most of the furniture, and, as she turned around, she found that the door only locked from the outside. It was a prison.

She closed the door, though it was futile because it couldn't be locked, and dropped the food on the bed, readjusting the baby in her arms and pressing her lips to her forehead. They stared at each other for a moment, as if testing the realness of this reality, and then she took a seat near the pillows and breastfed her, keeping a nervous eye on the door. The clothes on the bed fit her acceptably – just saggy jeans and an old T-shirt, along with some thick socks and fresh underwear. She dressed the baby in the onsies left beside the colorful toys, which she placed on the dresser, and then sat back, the baby sleeping on the bed beside her, and devoured the entire package of crackers, eating the jerky separate, using the cheese to hide the stale taste.

Martinez came into the room around ten – according to the clock mounted beside the door – and tossed her a bag of cookies as a snack. He was younger than the Governor, noticeably kinder and more compassionate, but she still scooted backwards when he walked to her bedside. He paused, probably wondering about her actions, and then he pulled a bottle of pills from his pocket. He set a water bottle on the side table and dispensed two pills, holding them out to her. "Here. These'll help with the pain, and they should help you sleep."

She stared at his hand, but made no move for the pills. She was tempted, considering how much worse the pain in her lower body got each hour she was awake, but she didn't trust him, and she couldn't risk being put to sleep by those pills. What if the baby started crying? What if the Governor came in and took the baby? What if walkers attacked in the middle of the night? She wasn't even considering how it may hinder her escape – that night she knew she wouldn't be able to get anywhere. Even if she could get out of the house, she had no idea where she was, how far they were from the prison, or in what direction she should run. Exposed to the cold and the elements, hungry and freezing, she would no doubt bring on her own death, and the death of her daughter. It was better to stay here until she knew what she was dealing with.

He waited, watching her face, and then set the pills beside the water, putting the bottle back in his pocket. He left, and then wheeled in a crib, which was lined with thick blankets. "The Governor wants you to put the baby in here." He locked the wheels so the crib was right beside her bed, and then he took the baby delicately in both arms and placed her inside. Carol watched him the entire time, nervous, exhausted, and scared. He met her eyes, stood straight, and said, "Just don't make him mad. It doesn't matter what you have to do – what you have to say."

With those ominous words, he left the room. She looked immediately to the baby, making sure she was comfortable down there, covering her in another blanket and then kissing her forehead. She crouched beside the crib for a while, staring down at her face, wondering if she looked more like herself, or more like Daryl. And then she thought of him, and slow tears dripped from her chin. He would've come back – if he was even _alive_ – and found that she was gone. What was he thinking? How was he feeling? She wished he would just burst through that door and save them both, but the house was quiet, and it would remain that way.

"I have to get us out of this," she whispered to her baby, whose big, blue eyes were fixated on her face. She was unnaturally quiet, strangely still, as if she understood what was happening and she wanted to help her mother. "I'm gonna get you back to your daddy," she went on, reaching down and letting the baby grasp her finger. She smiled softly. "I promise. I _swear_."

XxX

She woke in the middle of the night to the sound of her door opening. She was stiff under the covers, listening to the lock click and the wood slide across the carpet, and then she heard his footsteps across the room. He climbed into her bed and wrapped his arm around her side. He buried his face in her neck like they were lovers, like he was a doting husband, and she a loyal wife. Her skin burned at his touch, and she wanted to slap him, to push him away, to leap out of bed, grab the baby, and run until she found the prison, but Martinez's words echoed in her head.

_Just don't make him mad. It doesn't matter what you have to do – what you have to say_. But what was going through his mind right now? Did he know it was her? Did he even know her name? Was he imagining his wife in this bed, holding her, sleeping beside her? If that was true, then he likened her daughter to his own, who Carol knew had been bitten. It was Michonne who finally ended her. But Michonne wasn't at the prison when he came – he'd gone straight for her and the baby.

"Go to sleep, sweetheart," he mumbled into her skin, sliding his leg against hers. She used every bit of restrain she had to remain absolutely still, breathing only in short spurts, hiding her disgust. "Penny's got that recital in the morning – extra early."

She didn't sleep. She couldn't even begin to close her eyes, not with such a monstrous man breathing down her neck, literally holding her around the waist, pushing his body against hers, imagining her as someone else. She knew that speaking, or moving away, would spark his temper. He wasn't in his right mind at the moment, but somewhere far away. It was like he was in the middle of a psychotic break, losing touch with reality, dancing on the edge of insanity. He was living in his own world, and shattering that world would have consequences.

She lay awake for the rest of the night and thought about her daughter. It wasn't specific, but a wide range of topics. What would her first word be? When would she start to walk? What would Carol name her? Would she be a tomboy or a girly-girl? Would she be a daddy's girl or a mommy's girl? Would those blue eyes shift to brown with age? She pictured her face, saw her arms moving, felt her skin brushing against her. When she was born, Carol had felt nothing, but now she was attached – she knew and loved her child, even though she'd spent only hours with her. She knew her arms, her fat little legs, the rising and falling of her chest, the flutter of her lashes, and the sound of her breathing. She was a lot like Daryl already, strong, silent, beautiful, and a lot like Carol, soft-faced, considerate, observant.

When the sun rose and peeked through the half-metal windows, the Governor rolled over, stretched and left the room, saying nothing, not even looking back. Carol sat up and leaned over the crib, watching her daughter sleep, her own eyes weighed down with exhaustion. As the night wore on she'd finally thought of a name for the child – it was her mother's name, strong and noble.

"Hey sweetheart, it's mommy," she whispered, reaching down and fitting her finger into the tiny baby's fist. Those red fingers closed around hers. "I'm gonna call you Isobel, like your grandma. You think daddy'll like it?" She went to the dresser, retrieved a teddy bear, and placed it in the baby's grasp. Soon it was in a chokehold, its ear wet with slobber.

The Governor had left the door unlocked, so Carol wandered into the hallway, finding that Eliza's door was also unlocked and cracked a bit. She pushed it open and looked inside, finding the girl sitting up on her bed, a stuffed dog clutched to her chest. She saw Carol and jumped up, rushing over and wrapping her arms around her waist. "I'm sorry," she blurted out, "I couldn't let him hurt Louis. I didn't know what to do. Don't hate me… please don't hate me."

Carol took a deep breath and guided the girl to the bed, sitting down with her. She put both hands on her shoulders, holding her away from a hug, and leveled with her. "You should've came to me – to someone. Without you, he wouldn't have been able to hurt anyone." She started crying, leading Carol into her motherly instincts. "But you're just a kid. This isn't the kind of thing you're supposed to go through." She pulled her into her chest and stroked her hair, trying to comfort her. "I don't hate you. I'm just… I'm just scared."

"Is he gonna kill us?" she whimpered, grasping one of Carol's hands, staring up at her with brown eyes full of fear, confusion, and trauma. God, what had he done to her?

She kissed her forehead and spoke against her skin, so unsure of her own words that she couldn't look the girl in the eye. "I… I don't think so. You just have to be strong. Just be strong, and everything will work out, okay?" She hugged her and started rocking her back and forth, drawing the cries out, keeping her as calm as she could given the situation. In her own mind, she doubted herself, and she doubted his motives. There had to be something else to this captivity, not just a makeshift family, but some dark intention she hadn't discovered yet.

She was drawn from Eliza by the crying of her daughter, but she should've stayed. If she would've known what would happen that afternoon, she would've stayed with Eliza and held her close like a mother protecting her only child. But she didn't know, and she left her there alone. She left her there to cry, to draw the attention of their captor. She left her there to die.


	42. Violated

Isobel, who wasn't more than a day old, was as small and light as a doll in Carol's arms, her face like porcelain, precious and rare, and her new skin papery and veiny over her eyes, in the crook of her elbow, and in the dark of her nostrils. Hours passed and she drifted in and out of sleep, her pale eyelids fluttering over hazy blue eyes. Her fingers, small, weak, and soft, curled against Carol's palm, and her head, topped with weightless brown hair, lolled against her mother's arm. She was grateful for the silence, grateful for this warm place, and grateful that her captor didn't enter the room all day. She was free to move around, to investigate her prison, to place her daughter on the bed, carefully covered, and listen at the door. She found that the closer she grew to the newborn, the more motivation she had to find a way out of this place. Now was not the time to damsel. It was time to be a mother bear and protect her baby.

Evening came, dimming the light that found its way through the cracks in the boards covering the windows. Martinez came in to check on her, though he hadn't brought his gun. His eyes were hooded, his face much darker than it had been that morning. He looked at the baby, and then at her, his eyes narrowing with determination. "Come on. Bring her."

She walked stiff-legged from the room, her daughter in her arms, and stopped in the living room. Her heart sped at what she saw. The Governor was sitting in front of Eliza, who was trembling on the couch, her eyes wet with tears, her words shaking violently as she pleaded for something. When he saw Carol, the Governor looked up and smiled, patting the girl's knee. He looked back at her, then at the door, and then, much more purposefully, at Martinez.

"Take care of this. Carol and I have something to discuss."

He stood and walked to her, hooking his hand around her thin arm, and started pulling her toward his bedroom. She shuddered and resisted, her feet firm on the ground. She felt a vicious look coming on, but Martinez's voice beat it. He had turned, staring defiantly at his leader, and now he had his hands on a rifle. He pointed it at the Governor. "No."

Very slowly, so slowly that one would imagine he'd expected this all along, the Governor turned his eyes on his companion. He smiled, but it faded quickly into a frown, and then into a hard look that made him look years older. He released Carol. She stumbled away, her back to the wall, and her eyes flickered between them. She could feel the tension bubbling. Martinez looked unnerved, but his grasp on the gun was perfectly firm. He looked afraid, unsure, and confused, but aware of his actions, aware of the decision he'd made. The Governor portrayed confidence, almost to the point of complete control. He looked pissed, but he was managing his emotions.

"Either you kill that girl, Caesar, or I'll kill you."

Carol began to edge toward the living room, her heart beating out of her chest, her baby beginning to whimper in her grasp. Martinez's eyes shot to her for a brief, infinitesimal moment, almost relieved, almost concerned, and then the Governor's hand closed around her arm again and he pulled her full-force against his chest. She gasped, using all of her strength to rip out of his grip, but she felt the cold end of a pistol against the side of her head. She froze, her breath catching, as the tip of the gun moved to her baby's temple. He cocked the gun and waited.

She couldn't tell where Martinez's heart was concerning her, but she knew he had developed a bond with the little girl cowering behind him. She was his reason for turning on this dangerous man. If he left the Governor kill her daughter, he could still protect Eliza and get out of this house alive. But if he was a good man, if he was a moral man, he would stand his ground, just like he was doing. Seconds passed. His eyes kept moving to hers and then back to the Governor's – he looked so unsure, so scared of what was happening, which was a direct contradiction of his behavior at any other time. He was usually so confident, strutting around with his gun tucked, aware of his strengths, his talents, and his value. But this man… he was radically different.

"You kill that kid, Phillip, and see if it helps you sleep at night," Martinez said, his gun still holding steady. He stared the Governor down, growing stronger in his resolve with each word he said. "Blow her brains out! _Do_ it!" he screamed, "You do it and you take that scotch and drink 'till you black out again! Is that what this is? You finally gonna do something so horrible you can take that pistol and put it in your mouth and go see your kid in Heaven?" Furious, passionate tears sprung and rolled down his face. "It doesn't work like that! You don't get out that easy!"

Finally his words broke the ultimate liar's calm exterior. His grip on Carol tightened until she felt her bones straining, and the gun pressed against her daughter's skull, trembling. The baby started crying hoarsely, begging for some relief.

"You think this is easy for me?" the Governor roared, every ounce of rage, grief, and insanity he had bursting from him. "My family is _dead_! My town is _dead_! This isn't my ticket out, it's me finally getting what I _deserve_!"

Martinez took a daring step forward, making both the Governor and Carol flinch with expectation. He put his rifle to the Governor's forehead and stared straight into his eyes. She could not see the face of the man who held her, but she imagined Martinez saw something there, some kind of weakness. "I woke up in the middle of the night and heard my kids screaming for me – '_daddy, daddy, help me, please._' By the time I got to their rooms, their throats were biter chew-toys. My wife was next. But I'm not like you," he pressed harder with the gun, the muscles in his arms rippling, his face twisting with anger. "The only thing you _deserve_ is death."

Before she could blink, or feel empathy for his words, or even flinch away from the Governor's arms, Caesar pulled the trigger and a shot rang out. It blared out her hearing and his arms pulled her to the ground. She felt blood spraying over her, his jaw still moving against her head. She felt Isobel squirming in her grip, probably screaming bloody murder. She blacked out for a few seconds, struggling to get her head back in order. She felt the baby being pulled gently from her grip, and arms lifting her up, carrying her somewhere. She heard the jeep start, and then blackness.

XxX

She woke up thirty minutes after a high-powered gun was fired only inches from her face. She was on the couch in a different house, alone save the gun on the table in front of her. She was too tired to reach for it, and too sore to imagine lifting her arm up. She could hear Caesar and the girl talking behind her – he was saying something about the baby, and she was agreeing softly, her voice full of shock from what had just happened.

Carol sat up, turning to find them sitting at the kitchen table. Caesar had Isobel cradled in his arms, and when he saw that she was awake, he came over and handed her the baby. He sat on the couch beside her, scratching the back of his head. His eyes were conflicted. "I'm sorry," he murmured, gazing at the baby. "He was my friend… Phillip. I would've done anything for him. But, lately, people mean more to me. I guess I lost that when my family died." He glanced back at Eliza, who was staring out the window. "I'll take you back to the prison, if that's what you want."

"Yes," she said immediately, still unsure, but excited by the idea of returning home. She pictured the look on Daryl's face when he saw his daughter again.

He nodded, saying something in Spanish and drawing the attention of the little girl. She got up and walked over, handing him the keys to the jeep. She looked at Carol, smiled slightly, and helped her get up. As she stood, Carol noticed a red mark on the girl's neck. She looked at Caesar questioningly and then addressed Eliza. "What's that, sweetie?"

She looked up, her eyes full of trauma. "He bit me."

"Bit you…?" Carol turned, set the baby down, and crouched in front of the girl, examining her expression, the bruises on her neck and back, and the deep, hand-shaped bruises on her legs. She only briefly slid her pants leg up, finding similar marks on her thighs. Her stomach churning, she hugged her. "He's gone now," she whispered, responding as the girl started sobbing. "He's not gonna hurt you again. He's never gonna hurt you again."

In the corner of her eye, she saw the same fury on Caesar's face. She realized that violating this little girl had been the last straw, and that this was the reason he'd killed the Governor. He was too late, though, because as Carol drew away and stared into the girl's wet face, she found lifeless sorrow. Pain. Death. The Governor had already killed her. He had already taken her life. She was lost within herself, so far gone that it would take months, maybe years, to pull her out of it.

Looking up, she found the confidence to take on such a task in Caesar's face. She stood, still holding the girl close to her side, and nodded to him. "You'll take care of her?"

"Like she was my own," he said, tipping his head toward the door. He looked a bit traumatized himself, disturbed, unsettled by what he'd done and what had become of this once-lively little girl. She shared his sullen mood as she followed him to the jeep.

He lifted Eliza in first, and then helped Carol to climb into the front seat with the baby. As he started it up, she saw thin herds of walkers on their way to a house down the street, and a plethora of the mindless monsters crowding the doorway. She knew they'd found a meal inside. Caesar's eyes stayed on that house as they drove past, as did Eliza's. Carol stared down at her baby, gently wiping the droplets of blood from her face. She was quiet again, peering around without seeing much. She watched Carol for most of the ride, and Carol maintained eye-contact, her own welling with tears. A man had just died right beside her, and a little girl she was supposed to protect had been broken by that same man. She felt sad, scared, and triumphant, those emotions mixing with guilt and grief. She had no room for hope. The last part of her mind focused on the possessiveness she felt for her daughter, and a little promise she made to herself. She would protect Isobel to her last breath. She wouldn't live on if that girl died. She would do anything so Isobel could make it.

XxX

Caesar parked in the woods and then walked her to the edge, seeing her off to the main gate. She let him hold Isobel briefly while she hugged Eliza and said goodbye, wishing her happiness, aware that returning to the prison would antagonize those who'd lost loved ones because of her betrayal. She thanked the man who had saved her, seeing in him the qualities of a good father from the tender way he spoke to Eliza. She told him that, should he ever need to come to the prison for shelter or help, she would find a way to get them to let him stay, just not now.

She finally made the long walk across the open road to the front gate, where Glenn was pacing back and forth like a caged animal. He spotted her, flashed an uncertain smile, and began opening the gate. She rushed forward, avoiding the walkers that were alerted by the noise of metal scraping over gravel, and came in just as he started closing it again. He jogged to her side when she was already halfway to the entrance, talking in a rush. "Where's the Governor? Is he dead? Is the baby okay? The others came back – they all made it. Do you want me to get Hershel?"

"Yes," she responded, pulling the door open and stumbling inside. She found several people sweeping in the dining room, and one person scrubbing a blood stain from the floor. She greeted them feebly and went into C-block, preceded by Glenn, who yelled out for Hershel. She found the eyes of her friends, all of them warm and welcoming, and she felt hands on her back, guiding her to Hershel's office right off of the storage room. She found a cot under her, a blanket on her legs, and several smiling faces.

Hershel sat beside her and took the baby, looking her over, nodding to himself and complimenting each healthy attribute. She waited anxiously, her hand captured by Rick, who'd sat beside her. The crowd split and Daryl appeared, his face just as worried as hers. He took Rick's place and immediately pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly, watching the baby over her shoulder. She leaned into him, gladly accepting when the baby was given back, presenting Isobel like she was the most brilliant thing in the world.

Her eyes were open and she stared at them both. Carol watched Daryl's face, finding surprise, affection, insecurity, and fear blending together. He reached up and stroked the girl's cheek, releasing a breath he'd been holding, kissing her cheek as if he had to get the love out in some shape or form. His hand moved down and her fingers wrapped around one of his. Those crowded around drew a collective sigh of adoration.

She was home. She was really home.

XxX

"How'd you get away?" Daryl sat up against the wall, the baby cradled carefully in his arms, his eyes never leaving her sleeping face. He spoke in a soft whisper, one he'd been using since she'd arrived at the prison. For hours they'd sat up and talked, though they hadn't addressed her miraculous escape yet, and she was glad for that. It seemed to be the last bit of conversation they would have that night, as his eyes were growing heavy, and hers were dry and irritated. But lying there watching him hold their daughter tenderly in both arms was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen, and she didn't want it to end. If she slept, she would only have nightmares. Why couldn't this sweet moment go on forever?

She answered him in the same tone, aware that being loud would get her shushed again – if he shushed her one more time, she'd have to kill him. "Caesar… Martinez, he killed the Governor. He was protecting Eliza."

His voice got dark, gruff, and uncaring. "Oh yeah? Where is she, anyway?"

"Safe. He's taking care of her." Feeling the need to defend the girl's actions even though she had anger in her own heart, Carol moved her leg so that her skin brushed against Daryl's. He looked up questioningly. "She went through a lot – too much. You can't imagine the things he did to her. I saw it in her eyes… she was so… broken. Don't blame her. Blame him."

He blinked, considering her words, and then looked back at his daughter. He shrugged, words failing him. "Did he… with you?" he glanced up cautiously, his expression guarded. She said nothing, unrest burning through her stomach, and he reached out to touch her arm, shaking his head. "Whatever happened, it's over now. No one is gonna lay a hand on you or her."

"Promise?" she whispered.

His eyes simmered. "I swear."


	43. Trio

**I just want to thank everyone for all of the reviews I've gotten so far – I really appreciate them, and I take time to read them and answer questions if they're posed. I said earlier that I was distracted by my grandmother's condition; she passed away yesterday and it was very peaceful. After watching her suffer for the last few years, I'm relieved that she's finally free of that pain. Thank you for your patience as my chapters are sometimes days apart.**

**I used a time lapse because events don't occur only days apart. I wanted to bring them to the end of January, where supplies would run low again. This means Isobel, the daughter of Daryl and Carol, is one month old, or close to it, and Judith just turned one.**

**I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

**XxX**

_**One Month Later**_

It was that unfortunate time again – time for the most experienced survivors to form small groups and journey far from the prison, time for their loved ones to hold them and wish them well while secretly wishing all of the cars would have flat tires, time for the inevitable but unfortunate separation of parents from their children, the splitting of close friends, and the promises of return, marred by the inherent worry present in all those left behind. Minutes before they left, Daryl journeyed from cell-to-cell with his sleeping daughter in his arms, glancing in at the people who were saying goodbye to their loved ones. He was trailed by Carol, who sometimes stepped in to wrap her arms around a sobbing child – he would wait, watching her, his eyes narrowed with affection, and then continue more slowly so she could catch up. She lingered for a while in Tyreese and Karen's cell, comforting Karen, assuring her that Tyreese would do anything and everything in his power to get back to the little girl he loved so much. She likened him to Daryl, which he didn't object to. The two of them were a lot alike as far as their daughters were concerned.

Merle joined him when mamma bear was lax, walking with him to Dave's cell. The gargantuan man of a noble and full-bodied South African line was packing up his duffel, having agreed to join Rick, Carl, and Beth as they went to investigate a nearby town called Farmville. Daryl handed Isobel to Merle and went into the cell, taking a seat on the other side of the man's duffel bag and watching him work. "Be careful out there. I hear Farmville was a military base 'fore it got real bad in Atlanta. Keep an eye on Beth – she's new at this."

He nodded and smiled at Daryl, showing a lot of courage for a man who had lost one of his nephews and his only brother. He spent a lot of time with Carol, watching over Cane, developed a relationship with him, but he was still sad inside. Daryl could see it in his face. His eyes were tired, his mouth more accustomed to frowning than smiling these days. His words were cheery, almost excited, and Daryl had to wonder if he had agreed to go for the sake of distracting himself, rather than gathering food for the ever-vanishing stockpile. "Do not worry for me, my friend," he murmured, looking between Daryl and Merle, who stood cradling the baby in the doorway. "I will watch her as I would have watched my own brother. There are too many wooden crosses in the field behind our home." He paused, laying a hand on Daryl's shoulder. "You worry for yourself, and for your brother."

Daryl nodded and stood, grasping the man's shoulder before he left the room. He found Carol walking toward them, one eyebrow cocked with speculation as she saw big, tough, callous Merle holding her infant daughter. She stopped in front of him and ran the back of her finger over the baby's cheek, smiling warmly at Merle. "Be careful with her. She's fragile."

"Damn, I was itchin' for a good old game a' toss the baby," he said with false upset, giving her a small smile in return. He readjusted his arms around the tiny bundle, gazing down at her with the same expression Daryl often adopted. He didn't have the same reservations about letting his brother hold his daughter. He trusted Merle to be gentle with her, and he hadn't been disappointed yet. He was proving to be a capable uncle.

It was almost time for them to depart, so Merle handed the baby back to Carol and kissed both of them on the forehead, going back to his cell to retrieve his bag. Daryl walked her back to their cell and sat with her, holding her against his side with one arm, watching their daughter's eyelids flutter as she dreamed. Since she and Carol had returned from the Governor's short-lived captivity, he'd been protective of them both, perhaps oversensitive to changes in temperature, in Carol's moods, and in the health of the baby. She often said he was driving her crazy. By going on this trip he hoped to give her a break from himself, to give her some alone time with Isobel. He was even taking the dog. But now that he was about to leave, holding her in his arms, staring at their daughter's face, he second-guessed his plans. What if something happened while he was away? What if one of the fences fell? What if the Governor pulled a Jason on them and reappeared to finish the destruction he'd begun?

She must've felt him tense up with these dark thoughts, because she looked up at him, smiled sweetly and kissed his cheek. Her lips were warm and soft to his skin. She leaned down, her forehead resting on the side of his face, and murmured, "Go. We'll be fine."

He gave her another squeeze and got up, crouching in front of her to peek at his daughter. She was starting to stir, the dark blue of her eyes showing in tiny bursts of consciousness. He lifted his hand and put his finger between hers – she squeezed, opened her eyes, and stared at him, giving him that serious, concerned expression only babies could pull off. As cute as it was, Daryl saw it as an omen. He kissed her hand, and then her face, and then leaned up to kiss Carol one more time before he grabbed his duffel bag and peeled out of the room.

He met Merle in the hall and they walked together to the dining room, where Michonne was waiting for them. She looked between them, nodded, and headed outside. Daryl followed, saying his goodbyes to the others who stood outside. Dave had beat them there, and he stood with Beth and Carl, smiling as he told them some kind of joke. Rick came over to Daryl and advised him on the best route through the woods, mentioning the herd that had circumnavigated the prison only a few nights ago. The other group, who were bound for the retirement community of Fox River, consisted of Tyreese, Sasha, Asante, and Elizabeth, who, like Beth, was going on her first real journey with others from the prison. He waved at them in passing and jogged after his companions, who were already saddling their horses.

He got Demon saddled and then retrieved his lanky Doberman puppy, Sugar, who would ride in his arms for the most part. He'd been training her for weeks, trying to work a healthy respect for walkers into her capable mind. She walked the perimeter with him every morning, and sat with him in the guard tower at night, learning when to use her voice and when to run for her life. This was his first trial run with her.

They were the first to leave, Michonne sitting high on her handsome roan, Flame, Merle guiding the fox trotter, Nanny, on her first run since foaling Squirrely, their only colt, and Daryl holding the reins to the daunting black mustang, Demon, who seemed opposed to having a puppy balancing in his saddle. The three of them were the most experienced fighters and outdoorsman, and their destination was the furthest from the prison, only accessible through the forests of Georgia. The roads, as marked on the Woodbury maps, were crowded with mega-herds of walkers, but the woods, dark and ominous as they were, had remained mostly clear of herds. They would take a direct path to Oakland, a town made famous for its horse trade, and hopefully commandeer a vehicle with a horse trailer hitched to load supplies up for the long route home. Avoiding crowded routes would take several more days, but they were willing to do it, and no one objected to the copious amounts of supplies they would haul home.

He felt the length of their journey as soon as he left those gates and urged Demon into a trot. He veered into the woods, cutting across a low-bearing stream. He used a familiar hunting path to guide them away from the prison and the roads, following by his companions, who formed a line behind him. Soon the thin trees and underbrush changed into the tall, ancient oaks of the forest, and the light came only from above, filtered through the canopy leaves. The entirety of the forest was closing around them, swallowing them up, egging them on, daring them to continue into the great wilderness that marked the state. It was home for Daryl and Merle, and Michonne seemed just as peaceful as they were, sitting back on her saddle, listening intently, but sometimes drifting into long chains of thought. He knew that this run would be trying and dangerous, exhausting, cold, but he couldn't have picked two people he'd rather take those risks with.

XxX

Their first night came rather quickly. They'd left in the mid-afternoon to travel under the sunlight for a while, but the sun fell early in late January, and they encountered the cold winds of winter before long. Covering the horses in the decomposing animal parts they'd brought to mask the scent of the living and setting up a basic defense for the night – stakes in the ground, large, noisy branches surrounding the area – they set up their sleeping bags under the roots of a fallen tree, where a deep depression in the ground allowed them to escape the wind. Michonne slept further beneath the roots while Merle and Daryl preferred the edges, where they could listen for danger and look up at the stars. Sugar laid against Daryl's side, keeping him warm like a miniature sun, and her floppy ears, which he refused to crop, were alert at all times. If there was danger, she would be the first to hear it.

Merle sat up for the first watch, observing his brother sleeping with his dog, and the woman he'd used to loathe, who he now had a certain respect for, sleeping with her back to him. It was cold and dry out, perfect for a fire, but he resisted setting one up. This shelter wasn't viable enough to risk such a thing. Once they started cabin-hopping for the nights, he would set up fire pits. As it was, he sat against a particularly thick root, which still held its place in the ground, and alternated between measuring constellations and staring at the forest, picking out paths that would be useful when morning came. He ended up staying awake most of the night, leaving Daryl and Michonne to sleep – he didn't feel like laying down, too set in this position and this mindset to both waking them. Besides, he could nod off in the saddle and keep himself from falling out.

Come early morning, no later than four, Michonne stirred and stretched, her body shivering when she slid her arms from under the cover of the sleeping bag. She turned toward him, her eyes narrowed in the dim light of the moon, and then she looked toward the still shape of his brother. She turned her sleeping bag and sat up still inside it, curled with her knees to her chest, her chin on her knees, and her head barely an inch below dangling roots and loose dirt. She yawned.

"You were supposed to wake me," she said in a whisper. As much as they'd loathed each other all those months ago, they'd worked up a shaky bond, enough to allow them to communicate without going on the offensive. Her tone was sharp and bitter, but not hostile. The anger and impatience in her was a product of the cold, the lack of light, and the discomfort of sleeping in what was essentially a very healthy worm farm. She went on as she pulled a plastic bag from her backpack, tearing at deer-jerky with her teeth. "I think we should take the south-by-southwest path, that way," she indicated a dry streambed leading away into a deeper section of the forest, one shrouded by a plethora of winter plants, exposed briars, and spike sticks. "There's enough room for the horses, and enough snags to keep walkers off of us."

He wasn't worried about the spikes, as the horses were fitted with modified tough leather jackets which spread over their bodies like warm blankets, and kept the teeth of walkers out of their flesh, but he had his reservations about the direction itself. "We keep on that way and we'll run into the Jacket, too fast to cross, too long to go around. Might as well cut toward the bridge and take up a southwest point from the road."

"You said yourself that bridge is prone to walkers," she reminded him. They were speaking of the bridge Merle and his brother had come upon when traveling by themselves for a very short time. Daryl had saved a Mexican family from a crowd of walkers.

She threw the bag of meat to him and he caught it, taking one piece out and tossing it back. He nodded in thanks, chewing while he spoke. "Shouldn't be much traffic now. Big roadblock keeps survivors from wanderin' out there and gettin' their dumb asses ate up. No people, no reason for walkers to crowd up. Just a few stragglers ain't nothin' we can't handle."

"If Daryl agrees, we'll go," she assented, unzipping her sleeping bag and kicking him in the back. He rolled over, groaned a few curses, and began to wake up. His dog, the ever-loyal Sugar, wiggled out of the sleeping bag and went to Michonne, who offered her some of the jerky. She smiled at the dog, obviously harboring a strong passion for animals. "Daryl," she said, not looking up from the pleading eyes of the Doberman, "What do you think about taking that bridge over the Yellow Jacket and heading southwest from the road?"

He mumbled something, prompting Merle to reach over and unzip his bag. He sat up on his knees and leaned over his brother, teasing him, "What was that? Can't hear you through all them blankets ya got coverin' your pansy ass."

"I said that's fine," Daryl growled, reaching out to shove him, but missing. Merle retrieved the lantern hanging from the side of his bag and set it up beside his brother, watching as Daryl glared at him with red, bleary eyes. "It ain't even light yet."

"Having a baby made you soft, bro," Merle said, standing with the lantern in hand. He summoned his horse, a gorgeous credit to her breed, and began to wind the rotting animal parts into a bundle, which would hang over her back, but away from her nose. Michonne joined him, going to work brushing Flame down and guiding him through the woods, flashlight in hand, so he could get some early morning grazing done. Merle tied Nanny to Flame and sent her off with them, going back to rummage through Michonne's bag so his brother could have some of that jerky for breakfast.

Minutes later Daryl was stretching and popping his joints, shoving jerky in his mouth like he hadn't eaten in decades. He took Demon out on his own for grazing, which was a good thing because that horse had a habit of harassing the others. Merle was sure Demon had been used for horse fighting at some point in his life. It would account for the deep scars in his shoulders and his aggressive, but obedient personality. He was quite the rebel for such a well-trained, intelligent horse.

Before dawn they made their way through the forest, navigating by the stars and the landmarks visible through the trees. Daryl was grumpy all day, probably because of his rude awakening and the extra heavy steps of his horse, but Merle felt energized. He was leading the group, guiding his black-and-beige mount through the ups and downs of the Georgia wilderness, engaging in a debate with Michonne, who was also in a good mood. Despite the cold, the occasional drizzle, and the biting winds, it was a good day to ride.

At least, that's what he thought until evening came.


	44. Stitches

It was six in the afternoon, a time of complete darkness when winter struck Georgia. Slowly, the simple paths they'd been treading became dangerous obstacles, and the softest inclines became potentially disastrous wrong turns. The riders were forced to dismount and lead their horses, using strong flashlights to keep the path visible. The further they got into the gentle hills, the less walkers they saw – most of them didn't have the leg strength to move up a simple incline, they just walked a few steps, staggered, and hit the ground. That made it easier for them to keep moving in the dark without drawing their weapons or releasing their horses. Simply walking at a brisk pace through the walkers was enough to stay safe. Personally, Merle thought their shortcomings were rather amusing. Those bastards could devour half the world's population, but when it came to a few slopes and collapsed rabbit warrens, they were as helpless as kittens.

His mind drifted as he made his way through the briars, detaching vines from the bag lying across Nanny's back, occasionally flicking bugs at his brother and Michonne. He thought about the tiny thing back at the prison, Daryl's baby, and how strange it was to have a female relative. Most of the people in his family were men, and the women didn't last because the men lacked tact. Except Daryl, apparently. He was so caught up in these thoughts that he reacted half a second too late to a rustling noise a few yards ahead, dead in the center of their path.

Merle, Michonne, and Daryl froze in place, steadying their horses. Sugar crouched low in Flame's saddle, the fur on her copper-red neck rising, her teeth flashing, a growl rippling through her chest. Drawing his knife to use alongside the blade attached to his prosthetic, Merle took a few steps forward, flickering his light over the path. Nothing. He glanced back at his brother, who was already holding his crossbow, and at Michonne, who had her katana raised. He turned to the woods again, staring down the path, shining his light on every corner of it – it was an old deer track, probably used by centuries of herds, and so well-worn that trees and bushes didn't grow along it. He could see clearly, and his light went on until the darkness swallowed it. Several tense moments passed without sound, so long that he supposed it was a squirrel leaping from one branch to another, and then the noise came again to his left side.

By the time he turned, Daryl's flashlight was already pointed in that direction, and Michonne had taken a step toward the trees. She had her katana straight out, her eyes blazing. Sugar leapt from the saddle and bounded into the woods, vanishing within seconds. Cursing, Daryl ran after her. Michonne followed. Merle rolled his eyes, swore, and followed, hoping the horses would have the good sense to stay on the path.

He ran for several hundred yards, branches whacking him in the face, the light of his flashlight nothing compared to the consuming blackness of the forest. He saw Michonne moving in front of him, her own light having dropped back on the path. She was tripping and stumbling, having sheathed her weapon to keep from accidentally gutting herself, but she was still faster and nimbler than he was. He could barely hear his brother hissing the dog's name up ahead, and he could see the flashlight sometimes shooting beams through the underbrush.

Finally Merle burst through the foliage and staggered into a clearing. He hit his knees, but quickly scrambled up, finding a flashlight in his face. Michonne was barely a blur beyond the blinding light. "You okay?" she asked briskly.

He nodded, knocking the flashlight out of her hands. Daryl stood behind her, the dog bundled in both arms, looking guilty. He retrieved the light and shot it around the clearing, stepping closer to the two of them as if he sensed something amiss. Merle felt the same way. He had the peculiar feeling of eyes on his face, coming from somewhere in those dark, shadowy woods. Sugar's throat was still vibrating with growls, her fur standing up. She looked at only one place, where a threateningly large shadow loomed, too still to be a walker.

Suddenly there was no need to wonder about the thing hidden in the brush. The shadow dissipated and a massive black shape came streaking toward them, so fast that Merle only had time to do one thing – grab his brother by the coat and fling him in the other direction. He was struck by the full weight of a bear, which was growling much louder than the dog. He felt his body flop around like a ragdoll until he soared through the air and landed roughly against a tree. He was dazed, but able to haul himself up and avoid a claw aimed at his face. He saw beady eyes focused on him, on the sparkling weapon that replaced his hand. The paw raised and struck toward him; he held his prosthetic up instinctually and the blade went straight through the bear's paw, grinding against bone, echoing up Merle's entire arm.

Groaning in agony, the bear withdrew, pulling his paw away. Unable to get the blade out of the bear's flesh, Merle was dragged with it, his arm slammed down at an awkward position as the bear stumbled, shaking his paw, trying to get away from what was hurting him. Merle would've been happy to let him run if he wasn't attached.

An arrow whizzed by, as close to the bear's head as it was to Merle's. He craned his neck back to throw a curse at his brother, but he was dragged through the air again, thrown in every direction as the bear tried to get him off. He pulled at different angles throughout the wild ride, trying to free his blade, and he only got it out when the bear had gotten him to the other side of the clearing. He came free and slumped to the ground, taking his first breath since the blade had entered the bear, but it didn't seem to be done with him. It backed away and then charged again, only deterred when Daryl ran at it with his knife raised. It turned toward Michonne and started running, taking her off guard. She had been approaching from the other side, distracted by Daryl's motions, expecting the bear to charge him instead of her.

She was hit in the side by the bear's thick head. As Merle was helped up by Daryl, he saw the bear claw at her side, reducing her tough Kevlar vest into ribbons and producing copious amounts of bright scarlet blood. He grabbed the nearest stick and joined Daryl in chasing the predator off, waving his weapons in the air and hooting. Sugar stood ahead of them and barked threateningly, her entire pelt standing at attention. When the bear turned and ran, she tried to follow, but her enthusiasm was quickly curbed by Daryl's cutting command to the contrary. She sunk low and looked up at him, big eyes full of apprehension.

Merle retrieved Michonne, who had fallen to one knee as a result of her injuries. She gasped when he pulled her arm up over his shoulder, her head slumping to one side. Daryl got her other arm and they hurried the way they'd come, followed by their guard dog, who took it upon herself to make sure the bear didn't dare come back for them. The horses had stayed in place, though they were slightly spooked by the scent of a predator and the blood rushing from Michonne's ragged body. Daryl tied Flame to his horse and Merle propped Michonne up in Nanny's saddle, getting on behind her and then following Daryl through the woods. The sound of hooves was all they heard for several miles – they had to get out of the area before the walkers arrived, called by the growling of the bear, the barking of Sugar, and the hollering of the group.

They stopped at an abandoned farm, one they'd been to before in the search for domesticated animals. Operating on the same page, the brothers guided their horses straight into the cabin and locked the door. Merle pulled Michonne from the saddle and carried her to the fireplace while Daryl closed the windows and covered any cracks through which light could escape. He then turned on the lanterns and went outside to find firewood.

Merle balled up his coat and placed it under Michonne's head, taking off the tattered remains of her vest and shirt to get to the ribbons of flesh the bear had left hanging from her body. With the dog watching him anxiously all the while, and Daryl coming in and out with wood for the fire, Merle attempted to sew her up. He'd done this for Daryl many times on hunting trips, and when they were little boys who would rather pull out the sewing kit than go to the emergency room. Her injuries were the worst he'd tried to fix, but he could manage. It only took time and patience, and enough faith to keep trying even after the stitches pulled through the skin.

It took several hours to get her stabilized, and once he'd rested, he went back to work trying to prevent her wounds from getting infected. It had looked a lot worse before, but now that it was sewed up and cleaned, he could tell the bear had only just skimmed her, gashing open her skin, but not touching any vital organs. She would recover quickly, but it would be painful.

He was sitting with Daryl, his hand running mindlessly over Sugar's fur, when Michonne finally woke up. They'd dragged the mattress off the bed in the back room and let her sleep beside the fire, and now she turned toward them, her eyes narrowed questioningly, and prodded at her stomach, her breaths coming out ragged.

Daryl went and crouched beside her. "How you feeling?"

"Like I just got my ass kicked by a bear," she responded, her head falling back onto the mattress. She was conscious and alert, but obviously in a lot of pain. She tried to hide it, failing miserably. "Who would've thought? We worry so much about walkers, and then – bear."

He offered her his canteen, sitting beside her on the mattress. His eyes were on the boarded window, his mind obviously somewhere else. Merle knew he'd be thinking of his daughter right now. It was time for Isobel's bath, when Carol put her in warm pajamas and they'd all curled up together like a perfect little family. He knew because he would be sitting in the other room, alone, bitter, cold because he didn't have a kid to curl up with. But who needed that anyway? He wrinkled his nose and stood, going to hunt something fresh to eat, leaving Daryl to dream about his happy family and Michonne to moan about her wounds.

He liked to think that he preferred being alone because it kept him from considering the alternative. Being with someone didn't cross his mind because he knew it was impossible. He wasn't the type of man to feel that sort of love. Sure, he liked sex, he liked the friends he'd managed to make at the prison, and some of them were women, but it wasn't like what Daryl had with Carol. Merle didn't understand that type of trust.

He came back to Daryl sleeping on the couch, and Michonne sitting up against the side of the fireplace, the covers down as she examined her stomach. He went to the sink, skinned and gutted the squirrel he'd managed to hunt down, and then took it to the fire. She grimaced as he tied it to the metal fire poker. "Are you really gonna eat that?"

He shrugged. "S'food, ain't it? What do ya think that jerky's made out of?"

She stared at him, the fire reflecting in her eyes. He looked back for a moment, surprised she was even awake after losing so much blood, and then he looked at his squirrel. "Thank you," she murmured, her hand moving to her stomach again. "Daryl told me you saved my life."

He shrugged again, never comfortable with being thanked. He was used to being cursed, hit, and insulted, never thanked. He didn't really like it. He set the poker up so it hung a little higher over the fire and then scooted toward her on the mattress. He pushed her hand away and examined the stitches, which ran in perfect horizontal lines across her dark brown skin. He marveled again at how lightly she'd been hit – she must've jumped back or flinched away just a second before being struck. If she hadn't moved, it would've gutted her instantly.

"You're a lot nicer than you used to be," she commented, cringing when her words made him press a little too hard on her stomach. She tried to push his hand away, though she wasn't strong enough to take on a mouse in her condition. He slapped her hand off and she smiled ruefully. "Well, most of the time. Being at the prison has changed you."

He moved to his knees in front of her, giving a particular section of stitching another look. The skin was strained, almost ready to pop and let the wound open up again. That would cause a chain reaction which may force him to redo the entire surgery. He opened the kit, which had been placed beside the mattress, and strung a needle. "Gotta re-stitch this one," he explained just a moment before plunging the needle into her skin. She tensed up, her hand flying over his, her head hitting the fireplace, her eyes screwing shut. He continued to press the metal through, irritating tender skin and nerves that had already been pushed to the limits today. He imagined she felt like he was rubbing sandpaper on the wound.

He reinforced the problem area and a few stitches on each side, and the entire time she held onto his hand, keeping the same position. When he was done, he sanitized the needle in the fire and put it back into the kit, aware of her eyes on him, glazed with pain and exhaustion. "Sleep," he advised, pulling his squirrel out of the fire and, suddenly finding no desire to eat it, tossing it to Sugar, who pounced on it and devoured it in just a few bites.

She nodded, but didn't move, seeming to be losing consciousness. He sighed, picked her up carefully in both arms, and laid her across the middle of the mattress, pulling the covers up to her chin. He laid on the side that met the couch, right under his brother, and welcomed the little space heater who chose to curl into his side.

The day was over, they'd all survived, and the journey wouldn't be delayed by injury, but he couldn't get his head to work right. He kept thinking about her hand over his. For some reason, he'd never realized how soft a woman's hand was. Sure, Carol grabbed his hands all the time, but she was different – she was a touchy person, and someone he equated to family. But the hand that had held his… seeking protection, a freedom from pain… why couldn't he just go to sleep and forget about it? He turned toward her and watched her sleep, puzzled. Was now really the time to develop some kind of stupid kid crush on Michonne? God, had he ever even had a crush? Since he could remember, he'd been more focused on having sex and then blowing a woman off than actually knowing who she was. He already knew her – she was fierce, aggressive, and dangerous, everything that he was.

He couldn't get it out of his mind, and no matter how hard he focused on sleeping and forgetting the tender feelings he always mocked his brother for, he just couldn't force himself to drift away.

_What the hell is wrong with me?_ He groaned internally, turning on his other side and forcing himself to stare at the tacky patterns on the couch. He shut his eyes and listening to his own heartbeat, thinking of the woods, the journey, being dragged around on the ground like some shit stuck on that bear's paw. Eventually he faded, but his dreams betrayed him.

He couldn't escape.


	45. Bully

_You're a lot nicer than you used to be_. For the duration of their ride to Oakland, which spanned almost a week and took them through rough, untamed territory, Merle found himself trying to prove her words wrong. He couldn't stop himself. Before he could think about it, he would lash out, or spook her horse and cause her to fall off, or toss a walker her way. He hadn't been this vicious since his first days at the prison, and he hadn't even been this mean when he was trying to kill her. Late at night, when they all sat around a fire, struggling to keep their core body temperatures above the point of hyperthermia, he always thought about his actions, attributing them to his knee-jerk rejection of what he'd felt from simply touching her hand. It pissed him off because he wasn't in control of it. But there was a consequence for his childish reaction. His brother rarely spoke to him, deterred by the attitude he'd adopted. Daryl was a friend to Michonne, and he stepped up to defend her, even though she was very capable of defending herself. Merle already had a fine cut on his forearm from reaching out to take her flashlight.

On the eight night they set up camp in a ravine half a mile from Oakland, which sprawled out as a series of grand rodeo stadiums and run-down neighborhoods, all centered on a massive, powerful river that cut through the center of the city. There was enough loose brush around the ravine to make a suitable shelter, but not a fire, forcing them to redress in thermal underclothes – taken from some survival store Daryl was fond of – and lay down in their sleeping bags as soon as the sun set. The temperature dropped through the floor. Merle felt his nose hairs curling.

He hadn't had a cigarette in day, preferring to save them in case he didn't find any while foraging, but that night felt different to him. He left the shelter and leaned against a tree just above the ravine, staring out into the forest while he lit one up and took a puff. Sugar had followed him loyally from camp, and now she sat at his feet, the breaths from her nose forming small clouds in the frigid night air. He reached down to pat her head, meeting deep, earthy eyes, and when he stood straight again, he found that he wasn't alone.

She stood with her arms crossed, her back to the ravine and the shelter. She looked tired, just as tired as he was after so long in the saddle, but there was determination in her eyes. Without saying a word, she walked over to him, took the cigarettes from his pocket, and snatched the lighter from inside, staring at him defiantly as she lit her own and returned the items to their original positions. He narrowed his eyes, wondering if he should react, or if he even had the energy, while she turned, cigarette between her fingers, and blew smoke toward the forest.

He took the bait seconds later, reaching out to take the cigarette from her. She whipped her hand away and stepped back, ticking her finger. He scowled and lunged, grabbing her arm and ripping her back toward him. When it came to brute strength, Merle was the champion – she hit his chest, the wind knocked out of her, and he forced the cigarette from her fingers and stomped it out. He still had her arm tight in his grip, her muscles flexing beneath his fingers, and, surprisingly, she didn't pull away. She glared at him, openly furious, and demanded, "What the hell is your problem?"

"My problem?" he repeated, releasing her arm and giving her a hard shove. She stumbled back, but managed to stay standing, one hand moving to her stomach. She cringed a little. He glanced down, and then at her face, and then at the forest, taking another sip of the warm poison. "I ain't got no _problem_. You're the one wanderin' out here, middle of the night, actin' like I owe you somethin.' I don't owe you shit, bitch. I saved your life for Daryl, not for me. Go cuddle up to _him_."

She took a step toward him, "Did I do something to piss you off, or are you just trying to push me away? I think that's what you're doing." She took another step, now dangerously close to his face, her eyes just inches from his, burning with the fury and fire she never relinquished. "Don't bother. Who would _want_ to be near you, Merle? Who would want to be your _friend_, other than Daryl? But he has to. If he wasn't your brother, he wouldn't want anything to do with you."

With those words, which stung him a lot more than they should have, she turned and headed back into the ravine, using young trees to keep from sliding all the way to the bottom. He watched her, dumbfounded by how easily she saw through him. For the first few days he hadn't even been sure of what he was doing – he still wasn't sure. But she knew, and she made it easy for him. Or it should've been easy. He couldn't tell if he was furious, vengeful, or just dog-tired of running a marathon out of his element. Still conflicted, he went back to bed, ignoring the cold glare directed at him as he turned to zip the sleeping bag up with his only hand. He couldn't get it, so he had to turn, and even then it got caught in the fabric.

She cocked an eyebrow, obviously amused by his struggle. Daryl, who'd been awake since his return, sat up in his sleeping bag and reached out, only half-awake, to help him zip it. Frustrated and embarrassed, Merle slapped his hand away and snapped, "I don't need your help." He sat up and started playing with the zipper, relieved when Daryl turned over, grumbling something, and went back to sleep. It was only Michonne's speculative eyes on him now.

He must've tried to jimmy it for fifteen minutes, losing heat because it was stuck at the bottom. If he went to sleep like that, the first wind would make his teeth chatter. His left hand, his only hand, was getting tired – it was an impossible task for him, yet one so simple a freaking kid could've done it. He stared at his prosthetic angrily.

Just when he was planning on giving up and bracing himself for a frigid night, Michonne slid out of her bag and slapped his hand away, ignoring his protests. She worked the zipper until it slid up, and then she demonstrated, watching him matter-of-factly. "Not asking for help when you need it doesn't make you manlier, it makes you look like an idiot." She stood, stretched, and left the camp, heading to the south, probably to check on her horse. Merle watched her go, sighing. Was he supposed to chase after her and apologize now? Is that how they did it in those damn romance novels? He rolled his eyes. Hell if he was getting out of his warm sleeping bag to go trekking after that Nubian, smartass, self-righteous bitch. She deserved what she got – for what reason, he was unsure, but he would definitely think of one. Besides, he could've done it on his own. He didn't owe her anything. She could go out there and die for all he cared.

XxX

Merle woke up before dawn and, to his own displeasure, found relief in the fact that his sometimes-enemy sometimes-friend was curled up in her sleeping back, her long, braided black hair barely visible as she hid her face in the material. His brother was also asleep, and as Merle got to his feet and stretched his aching muscles, a tail wagged at the top of the sleeping bag. He was sure that as an ass-to-face situation. He whistled for the dog, who wiggled backwards out of the sleeping bag and removed her rear end from Daryl's face. He rolled over, grumbled something, and then went still. Suppressing an amused smile, Merle donned his pack and headed into the woods, followed closely by a lanky Doberman puppy who was eager to run after some squirrels. He had his throwing knives, and he'd snatched Daryl's crossbow for a quick morning outing, hoping to give the group some real meat before they ventured into the city. He might even share with Michonne.

He found two rabbits, one of which Sugar hauled from its hole, and the other having narrowly avoided the mitts of a roving walker just to cross his path. He killed the walker, slung the rabbits over his shoulder, and looked at the dog, "Good huntin' there, we're going home." As smart as she was, she led the way back to the ravine, and he let her, focused on the flowers unfolding in response to the dim light of a new sun.

The others were awake when he returned, just stirring in the folds of their sleeping bags. He set up a fire, no longer worried about walkers spotting it for miles in the total blackness of night, and lit it with the third-to-last match in his pack. He sat for several minutes nursing it into an acceptable cooking tool, and then he found a mostly flat rock on which to skin and gut his rabbits. He gave the guts to the dog, whose tougher stomach could handle almost anything, and carefully cut the meat from the bone, pressing the smallest pieces together to form patties. Back at the fire, Michonne and Daryl were sitting up, warming their hands against the flame, talking quietly about the town of Oakland. Merle used his metal mesh as the grilling surface, and wrapped the pliable metal edges around some stakes that lay in the ground, keeping the mesh elevated enough so the meat wouldn't catch fire. He sat beside Daryl, nodding to him, hoping his brother could see that this meal was a peace offering. Daryl nodded back, his eyes flickering over to Michonne.

Sighing, Merle looked at her, finding her eyes already on his face. She was suspicious of his motivation. "Look, I'm sorry I been actin' like an ass lately… s'just this… crick in my neck, got me all out a' sorts. It's gone now."

She narrowed her eyes, "Good." He couldn't tell if she believed him, or if this matter, just between the two of them, would be solved in some other way, but she seemed to accept it for the moment. For Daryl's benefit. She looked at his brother now, tipping her head to the sky. "We can search independently, but we should meet back at specific intervals throughout the day. What do you think about noon, midday, and sunset?"

"Where?"

"Center of town – there's a fountain. Or, if that's not an option, the motel on the north side of the river. Whoever made these maps thought the town would be abandoned, but that was a long time ago. If there's a herd moving through, we can't risk getting cornered."

Merle listened to their strategies, sometimes offering his own ideas, but mostly thinking about the mission at hand. He had been with Woodbury for a while, and they'd never explored this place. The Governor didn't even give a reason for it. But why? Was it dangerous? Full of walkers? Or was there something darker he didn't want to mention? Perhaps this is where he came from. That idea intrigued Merle. It was like looking at Hitler's baby pictures, imagining him as a child, not a monster. He was so touchy about the subject, leading Merle to believe he had the right idea. He would be searching for identifiers – pictures, papers, and mailboxes – anything to link that man to the place he had avoided like the plague.

He ended up giving the two patties to Michonne and Daryl, preferring the tougher, muscular meat for himself. He also at the heart and the liver, leaving the rest of the corpses for the dog, leaving two hind feet to dry in the sun. One for him, one for his brother. They got their gear ready, covered their horses in the decomposing crap they'd been carrying for days, and led them into the ravine, leaving them under the cover of the shelter they'd set up. They walked the half mile to the city and then broke apart, Daryl leading his dog, Michonne wielding her sword, running low to the ground, and Merle strolling peacefully into the closest neighborhood.

He was in the mood to kill something, after all.

XxX

Merle tore his way through a few residential blocks before he found an interesting house, one he wouldn't mind having owned before all of this went down. He killed the walkers inside, three adults, and a pint-sized little girl, before proceeding to pillage the entire place. He took diapers, formula, bottles, and clothes, shoving them all in his duffel bag as he moved quickly from room-to-room. He stopped in the upstairs bedroom, where he found a room with only one item in it. There was a bed, the entire thing draped in off-white plastic sheeting. He dropped his duffel in the doorframe and approached, curious.

He found a small collection of food, a few storybooks, a decomposing body – human – and a small form wallowing in the guts of its dead parent. It reached for him, but it was unable to move itself, having lost pieces of its body as it ran out of flesh to gnaw on. It was also too young, so young that it wouldn't have been able to do anything but lift its head. Still, Merle approached and drove his blade through its soft skull, wiping the blood off on the pristine sheets folded at the end of the bed. It must've been the woman's wish. Her last act. She wanted to stay with her baby, to feed it, and this is where it got her. She was fed on, and her flesh sustained the creature she'd been willing to protect, even though it was no longer human, even though it had died a long time ago. He was disgusted so badly that he didn't explore the rest of the house.

He took his duffel out and tossed it onto the front steps, taking the first two and then leaning over the railing to vomit. He was approached by Michonne, who came from one of the houses across the street. She placed her duffel carefully beside his, cans clanging against each other inside, and narrowed her eyes at the rising sun. She took a seat on the bottom step, waiting for him to get rid of everything in his stomach before she spoke. "I'm guessing you found the same thing I did. Babies, right? These people were… sick."

Merle looked at her, unable to express the venom he in his heart. He slumped to the nearest step and ran his hand over his face, wiping away the cold sweat, wishing he could wipe away the images that flickered in his mind. She turned toward him, prodding his knee with one hand, "What happened to Mr. Tough Guy? You scared of a few dead bodies?"

He shook his head, unsure if she was trying to provoke him. Her tone wasn't right. She actually sounded interested. "Ain't the first dead baby I seen," he murmured, his voice raspy. He thought back to his last encounter with young death, and it frightened him so much that he shut that part of his mind down. "Took me off guard." He looked up, finally finding his attitude, "Shouldn't you be doing something? Damn, I unclench for one second and you're already crawlin' up my ass."

She smiled ruefully, the same way she had that night, and stood, offering him a hand. When he just stared at her, trying to look cold, she shrugged. "Suit yourself." There was something else in her eyes, though, something that intrigued Merle. He was good at getting information out of people, whether through torture or deceit, and he found that he wanted to know what was on her mind. He'd had a volatile reaction to the dead things in those houses, but she seemed to be imploding – her light words, her lively smile, they were cover. People like them had to cover. He did it with anger and cruelty, she did it with total indifference.

He got up and jogged after her, stopping her on the sidewalk. "Alright, alright, it's time to make a deal. I tell you somethin' personal, you tell me somethin' personal." At her doubtful look, he smiled challengingly. "What? Scared to say what's on your mind? Scared I can see right through ya? 'Cause I can, just like you can see right through me. We're one in the same, you and me." He looked back at the house, at the walkers staggering toward them. "We been through some shit, and we done some stuff we ain't proud of. Admit it, you're dyin' to know what makes me tick."

She gave him a challenging smile in return, "Only if you admit it first."

Their conversation dissipated and they both turned away, wielding their weapons. He knew this wasn't the place to go baring his soul, blubbering about how his life went all wrong, but there would be a place. He would earn her trust, and he would get it out of her. He didn't know where this sudden urgency had come from, why he was so curious, curious enough to make such an offer, but he knew it would be worth it. He felt it like he felt the blood rushing in his ears.


	46. Guardian

**In response to the anonymous review by Joseph, I cannot email you, as I don't know who you are – your review is anonymous. Sign in and private message me, or review again, and I can respond to you. This is a very dark and emotional chapter for Merle – poor guy – but also a flash-backwards flash-forwards chapter, so keep track of which part is in the present, and which part is in the past. I hope you like it! I've always wanted to write about Merle's past as it pertains to his brother. In the show we see a lot of pain wrapped around their father, so it's time to explore that in depth.**

XxX

Merle was dreaming.

He watched his father, a tall, broad-chested, bald-headed, clean-shaven marine sergeant on medical leave, walk across the living room floor. Back and forth, back and forth, his arms crossed over his huge chest, each breath like a gust of wind, full of cheap liquor and imported cigars. Merle was just a little boy, barely nine years old and skinny as a beanpole, sporting a thick head of curly brown hair, wearing his dad's dog tags and an old, beaten tank-top with blood stains on the front. He sat on the couch, an ugly, flowery piece of crap from decades ago, his entire form tense with expectation, his eyes on the rotting boards under his bare toes. His father was on a rampage, so mad that he didn't even know what to say, and Merle was expecting to get hit any moment. He was expecting the full force of the marine's rage to fall on him, like it had fallen on his brother only minutes ago. Now the baby, just a little over twelve months in age, stood facing the corner, tears splashing at his feet, his body trembling, his smooth back covered in red welts and one clear, cherry-colored handprint.

He knew that he was dreaming because this had happened nearly forty years ago. He knew that he was bigger than his father now, having inherited more genes from his father's father than from the man pacing in front of him, but he couldn't force the fear out of his mind. He felt everything he'd felt that day, waiting for a fist to fly, waiting for his father to grab him, fling him into the ground, and descend upon him like he would've attacked enemy troops. Merle was a helpless observer within his own head, staring at his father, bracing himself for the storm.

"Clean that shit outta the yard… the branches…" his dad murmured groggily. It seemed that he'd used all of his energy and pent-up rage to beat the crap out of Daryl, and now he was ready to sleep until something pissed him off again. He slumped his shoulders, glanced at Merle once more, eyes foggy, and then wandered into the bedroom. He slammed the door behind him, the sound making Merle flinch into the couch.

When their father was out of sight, Daryl came from the corner and pushed between Merle's knees, wrapping his skinny arms around his elder brother's neck. He was too small to walk confidently, or in a perfectly straight line, and too little to be hit as hard as he was, but the kid was sturdy. Merle was aware of all of this, and he knew that his brother, as irritating as he tended to be, was not to blame for what had just happened to him, that he was scared, confused, and looking to Merle for protection and love, but his young mind, just like his old mind, desired to lash out. He pushed the boy away, making him stumble and fall against the chair. His little eyes welled up with tears, but he didn't cry. He never cried, fearing he would get punished, fearing that, this time, their father wouldn't realize what he was doing until it was too late.

The same thing occurred to Merle and he went over to his brother, sighing, lifting him up and holding him in both arms. He was heavy. He went into their room and sat on his bed, rocking back and forth, trying to avoid tears himself while his brother's slid down his stomach. He whimpered a few times, but he was otherwise silent, mimicking his brother's reaction.

"Don't you worry about a thing," Merle whispered, sniffling. He brushed some tiny twigs from his brother's mess of hair, his hand shaking. "One day it'll just be you and me, and I'll take care of you. Won't nobody hurt you on my watch. You got that?"

XxX

It was noon when he dragged Daryl out of the small house at the end of the block, putting him in the saddle with Michonne, who turned her horse and raced for the woods. He mounted Demon, letting her lead Nanny, and sent him into a gallop, lashing out with his prosthetic to ward off the walkers who approached like moths to a flame. Masses of them approached from every direction, a mega-herd covering the entire horizon like a swarm of bees. He veered to the left, to the right, and then doubled back, using his gun to knock them out of his path, guiding the horse expertly through the city. When he hit a main road the horse gathered speed, hooves slamming into the asphalt, and Merle laid low in the saddle, picking off walkers that blocked their path with an assault rifle. He also covered Michonne, who was doing her best to use her katana and keep Daryl from falling off of Flame's back. He killed three that had been reaching out for her leg, and then another that lurched toward the horse's haunches. Their furious ride ended at the edge of town, when Merle and Michonne hit top speed on their horses and headed straight for the camp.

He literally rolled from Demon's back, tumbling into the clearing at the bottom of the ravine and packing up supplies. Michonne did the same, loading up Nanny because she was free of a rider. They buckled, tied, and zipped everything in record time, their pulses racing, and then they hopped on and rode for cover from the impending storm. When the walkers lost them, they would continue to wander in that direction, so they cut a path through the woods, forging streams, racing through the hills, trying to put as much ground as they could between themselves and the walkers.

Four came before they decided to stop. They led the horses to a small resort situated on the side of a massive, forested hill, taking up temporary shelter in one of the rooms closest to their path. Merle carried his brother to the bed while Michonne led the horses to their own room and went out for some branches, hoping to keep them fed for the night.

Laying his brother carefully on top of the sheets, Merle took a seat beside him. His heart was hammering, not from the chase, but from the prospect of having lost his brother. He placed two fingers to his neck, horrified when he found that Daryl's pulse was uneven and extremely weak. If Merle didn't do something fast, his brother would die.

XxX

He got a glimpse of the situation, remembering what had brought him to this emotional state – he was dreaming this way because he was in the process of losing his brother. This was how his mind coped with such loss. It played his life for him, those substantial moments that shaped their childhood, and the strong bond between brothers that seemed so strange to other people. He couldn't imagine anything crueler.

He was seventeen now, bigger and stronger, with lean muscles developing on his long arms and a distinguished squint to his expression. He was perched in an old oak tree, his mother's favorite before she decided to live the rest of her life indoors, and tree his brother had learned to climb on. Their names were carved just above his head. He was watching his brother fish waist deep in the lake water, admiring the way he cast his line – he'd taught him a few years back, but only now did it seem to catch on. Lately their father had been drunk every day, and the two of them came here to get away from it, to separate themselves from the darkness living in their own home. It did a world of good for Daryl, who was actually smiling as he reeled in his first catch of the day. Merle hopped down and jogged over, admiring the sparkling bass that flopped out of the water. He told his brother he'd done good. He patted his shoulder, ruffled his hair. Daryl had always looked at him like he was some kind of superhero, and each time he beamed at him like he did in that moment, Merle felt his heart beat a little harder. It was pride. He was proud of what he'd been able to work into that boy. He was sturdy as that old oak, clever enough to track a fox back to its den, and brave enough to take on a buck with a bow and arrow.

But no amount of teaching could prepare the kid for what was stomping through those woods. He knew it was a dream, just like last time, but as Merle turned and saw his father's face peering at him through the shadows, he was paralyzed with fear. It was so ingrained in him that his own size and strength didn't matter. Nothing mattered but the cold feeling in his gut. His father stared at him, that thick brow furrowed, and then motioned toward the house, which could be seen through the woods. He said nothing because he didn't have to.

Merle put his arms around his brother's shoulders and made him put the fishing pole down. He walked with him to the edge of the forest and then let him pick his own way through the brush. They walked like men walking to the noose, silent and determined, defiant, but terrified. When they walked up the front porch Merle held his brother by the shoulders and stared him straight in the eyes. "Whatever happens, don't you fight him, Daryl. He'll kill you."

His brother nodded obediently and then followed Merle inside. He stood slightly behind him, peeking out like the mere sight of their father would initiate the beating. Merle stood with his shoulders back, his eyes scanning the man's face. He had a belt in his hands, and he flexed it, his knuckles white from the effort of bending tough leather. He motioned for Merle to come closer, and then he flicked his shirt, "Take it off, son." Merle shrugged the fabric off and tossed it at Daryl, who caught it, holding it close to his chest as he stared at both of them with wide eyes. Their father motioned to the couch. "Sit down and learn somethin' about breakin' the rules in this house."

"What'd I do this time? Look at you funny?" Merle challenged, his gut burning.

His father guided him to his knees and walked around him, now out of sight. "You were late for breakfast this morning," he said quietly, his voice menacing. His lips moved right beside Merle's ear; the smell of wine filled his nostrils. "Say something to me, boy. I dare you."

It came down on him like a whip, setting his skin on fire. Merle supported himself with one arm, his entire back throbbing, and braced for the next one. They kept coming, simmering on his skin, making his head spin. His nails dug into the wood, his toes curling, his face scrunching up, waiting for that amazing moment when he'd finally pass out from the pain.

But it didn't come. He heard his brother cry out in objection, "Stop! Leave him alone!"

He heard the belt drop. He twisted around just in time to see his father grab Daryl with both hands and throw him headfirst down the stairs that led to the basement. He got up and lunged for the door, the entire force of his being tuned into the sound of his brother crashing like a rag doll into the unforgiving cement, but his father caught him off guard with a shove and sent him into the wall. He caught himself against it, crippled by the injuries to his back. His father approached, grabbed his arm, turned him, and punched him in the face. Pain radiating from his nose, Merle sunk to his knees. His father left, but, in his mind, he replayed that scene over and over again.

He woke up a while later. It was dark out. His father was in his room with the door shut. He looked around, but his brother wasn't there. Recalling what had happened, he snatched a glass of water and took the steps two at a time, collapsing at Daryl's side, his heart breaking at what he saw. His brother was badly bruised, his wrist broken, his nose bloody. He stared at Merle, conscious, but barely aware of what was happening.

"I have to go," he murmured to the little boy, pulling him up and holding him against his chest. He searched his face, wondering what he could possibly be thinking about. Merle's mind was clear at last, and he saw what he had to do. His father's rage was directed at him – it was a product of his oldest son's similarity to his old tormentor. His own father, Merle's grandfather, had been an evil son of a bitch. If he left Daryl here, bruised, but not broken, the kid would forge his own way. He could find his own path, away from Merle's anger and hatred, away from their father's temper. He was not its target. He was never its target.

He smiled, unaware that the logic in his mind was a product of fear, unaware that his reasoning was only useful to get himself away from the situation, and wouldn't benefit the boy in his arms at all. He felt that everything would get better. He made himself believe it, because he couldn't stay there. He ruffled Daryl's hair, dislodging a few scabs. His thoughts turned to his future, his idea of an escape plan. He would join the military, and then come back to take his brother home with him. He may or may not kill his father – he hadn't thought that part through – but he would do whatever he could to make that kid his own. Everything would be alright until then. It had to be. "Be strong, brother," he whispered. "I'll come back for you."

XxX

Merle woke up on the bed beside his brother, who was still unconscious. He sat up and pulled Daryl into his arms, much like he had when he found him in the basement that night. He checked his pulse – still weak – and then used a washcloth to gently remove the blood from his face. His breaths were hitched, his eyes constantly wandering back to the triple tap that had taken his brother to his knees. He took those bullets for Merle. Some survivors, some dumb bastards who wanted to claim that city for their own, aimed a colt at Merle's chest, and Daryl just had to step in front of it. He had to test them. He had to dare them. And then the shots went off and his brother went down. First to his knees, dazed, but awake, and then he fell forward into Merle's arms. He replayed the moment in his head as he sat there, cleaning away the blood.

"Those bullets were meant for me, dumbass," he whispered, his jaw locking up as grief temporarily overwhelmed him. He looked at the ceiling, forcing tears back into his eyes. "Everybody's got a gun these days. Everybody's gettin' shot. I could a' took 'em. I might be in the ground instead of here right now, but I would rather it be like that." He set the washcloth down and laid Daryl flat to look at his chest, which was tender and pink from the surgery Merle had performed. "You know how much shit I went through to keep you safe? And there you go, actin' like you ain't got nothin' to lose. Nobody would miss me, brother. You got a baby – you got Carol. The people at that prison, they don't give a fuck if an asshole like me gets put down, but not you. You're the good one, remember?" He pulled the covers up to Daryl's chest, just like he'd done since he was a little kid, and stared at his face, wishing something would change. "This isn't how it ends… it can't be."

Michonne stood in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. She'd been there for a while, but he paid her no mind, not even caring that she heard his tender words. He didn't care who heard him; his heart was hurting, and the only way to stifle it was to talk to his brother like he was wide awake and listening. She had a single tear in her eye. "Any change?"

"No." Merle didn't look at her. He kept his eyes on his brother. "It's a damn coma. He's in there, but he ain't comin' out 'till he's good and ready." His resolve wavered and he looked at her, examining her face. "Listen… you mind… stickin' around? We got enough firewood for the night, and the horses'll sleep soon. If he wakes up, he'll need both of us."

"_When_ he wakes up," she corrected quietly. She came over and sat in the chair beside Merle, wrapping up in the old, hand-knit blanket that had been draped over its back. "I'm not going anywhere. But it's not just for him. If you sit in here alone much longer, you'll scrub his skin off with that damn washcloth."

He chuckled, sitting up against the headboard, looking between the two of them while he spoke. He kept a close eye on his brother, aware that he could awaken at any moment, but he couldn't keep himself from looking back at Michonne, who had dispatched the gunman. She was the only reason Merle and Daryl were alive. He'd been so stunned back there, sure those shots had killed his brother immediately, that he hadn't even tried to find cover. She'd forced him into that house and then made the long run for the horses.

She stared at him as if she was trying to decipher him, giving him that typical intelligent look, much too clever to be trusted. But he found that he did trust her. She could've left him to die, but she didn't. She could've been napping at that very moment, but she wasn't. She was sitting with him, with his brother, trying to make him feel better. She was doing the same thing he used to do for Daryl, and she did it better.

"Wanna play cards?" she asked, digging a pack out of the bed side table and holding it out to him. "I bet I clean you out of those cigarettes." She sat on the foot of the bed, directly across from him, and began shuffling, her eyes wandering to Daryl. When she looked back at Merle, who had been watching her the entire time, she gave him a small smile. "You chicken?"

"Deal."


	47. Ruth

On the third evening since three shots had torn through his chest, Merle's baby brother was still asleep, healing internally before he could even think to open his eyes. His breathing evened out, his pulse growing stronger by the day, but he didn't wake up. He lay there peacefully, unaffected by the turmoil within his brother and his friend, because, despite their hope, their insistence that he be kept warm, that fresh meat was always available, they were wracked with grief. Merle had seen this type of coma before. It would seem to get better, and his brother would seem to recover at a very slow rate, but in truth his body was dying. His organs would shut down one at a time. His eyes would stop flickering with dreams. Whatever was left of Daryl would fade, a self-consuming flame, a star dying and imploding in the vast silence of space.

But still he tried to hope. He put everything he could into that one feeling, that one sensation, and tried to use it to pull his brother back from the edge. He sat with him during the day, told him stories, held his wrist as to keep a check on his pulse. When he went out hunting, which he did frequently to ease his anxiety, Michonne took up his post, vigilant and stoic. She challenged him to cards to take his mind off of his brother, and most of the time she was successful, guiding him to the other side of the room, where a small fire burned in an old brick chimney. Even when the games were over and they had nothing left to say to each other, she sat with him, just breathing, and they shared the space. He was often mean, sometimes rough, and always rude, but she never threatened to leave him there alone. She always came back. Some days he wasn't sure if he wanted her there. He felt weak and powerless, far from the strong man he'd grown into, more like the little kid his father had terrorized, and he didn't want anyone, let alone Michonne, to see him like that. He made it known when he needed space, as did she, and they learned to avoid one another when the day was too cold, or Daryl's pulse too quick.

It was that third night, which plunged them into freezing temperatures and prompted Michonne to bring the dog over from the horses' room, that Merle was comfortable enough with the situation to initiate the distraction. He moved from beside Daryl, his eyes on the other man's face as he walked toward the fire, and fingered a pack of cards in his hand. Michonne had the lanky pup in both arms, both of them fixated on the fire, but she looked up at his approach. She smiled slightly, putting Sugar down and motioning for him to sit. They'd accumulated a sizeable pile of blankets right in front of the fireplace, which served as her bed, and their arena.

He sat across from her and handed her the deck, too tired to bother trying to shuffle with one hand. She watched him while the cards danced between her skilled fingers. He watched the cards, his eyes occasionally wandering to the fire gliding over her deep brown arm. Sugar crawled into his lap and kept him warm as the game commenced, leaving Michonne to wrap a huge quilt around her shoulders. Merle waited for the perfect time to strike up a conversation, which came when their game of rummy and the beginning of a simple game of war. "Tell me somethin', Michonne," he murmured, pronouncing her name as he always had to get a small smile to appear on her lips, "What experience you had with… babies, like the ones we saw back in Oakland."

Her expression darkened as she laid out her first card. She looked up at him, the whites of her eyes flashing as the firelight hit them. "You first."

He shrugged, tossing his card out and then scooping them both up. He spoke in a low voice, not letting himself get caught up in emotion. He'd been flying off the radar lately with that shit, and he was tired of it. He was burned out. Despite this, the story was very close to his heart. It was a memory, a memory of a memory, locked away somewhere deep in his mind, producing that automatic sickened reaction which made him extremely weak to the sight of young corpses.

"I was seven, skinny as shit, bit more handsome than I am now. Momma was pregnant with Daryl, and she was takin' care of my sister, too." He looked up as surprise registered on her face. "Yeah, nobody but me and them know about that. Daryl don't even know. She was dead before he was born, figured I wouldn't tell him about her." He took a breath which filled his entire chest, cold, smelling of burnt wood and cooking meat. "Daddy came home drunk – won't no surprise there – and she was cryin' her damn lungs out. He picked her up, shook her a few times, and she went quiet as the grave. Literally. Six months old and her neck was snapped like a twig."

Merle placed his next card down, the image of his sister's face flashing to the front of his mind. "Pretty little thing, blonde hair like Momma, big old blue eyes… Daddy laid her down on the bed 'side mine, left her there like she'd wake up. They just let her stay there, figuring they'd try again once Daryl was born. She laid there and rotted right beside me, the smell was… memorable. I took her out and buried her two weeks later, when my daddy finally told me I could."

The game went on for several minutes as she absorbed his story. He let the grief wash over him temporarily, and then swept it away, glancing at his brother to remind himself of what he still had – if only for the night –, rather than what he'd lost.

Michonne spoke quietly, her monotonous voice trembling with each word. He knew from her posture, from the way her eyes flickered, that she had never said this aloud, that he would be the first one to hear it. His curiosity gave way to a shared sense of pain. He realized that his words that morning had been true, that they were more similar than he'd originally thought. It wasn't just their aggression that bound them, but their drive, their sense of vengeance, of justice, the hatred lingering in their hearts, the way they struggled to become something else, but wallowed in what they had been like it was their only lifeline, the way they embraced battle and life, their strength and their passions, their hope, and the desolate corners of their minds that had died a long, long time ago. He saw it all in her for one brief moment.

"Three years ago my brother's best friend… Samuel…" she said the name with loathing so strong that he shared her desire to stick a blade in this person, "… and he forced me to have sex with him. It was… not a place where you reported crime, so I lived with it." She looked up, checking his face, and then looked back down at the cards. "I got pregnant and had a kid – my daughter – and I was… happy. She was nine months old when the walkers came. I wasn't at home – I was at work, taking some bullshit from people I didn't even like – and she was with my mom. By the time I got home, it was too late. Samuel and my brother were there and they used my baby as bait to get away." Tears sprung down her face, tears of grief, tears of anger. She stared at him and he stared back, accepting the blame she directed at herself. "I watched them throw her to those _things_! I watched them tear her apart, and I _ran_! I didn't say anything. I didn't try to save her. I just ran until it was quiet."

She touched the sword at her side, glancing down at it. Her tears landed on the hilt. The rage she'd built up faded rapidly from her body, dissipating like steam. Now that it was out, she was quiet again. "I found this in a museum near my house, and I went back to kill them. I was gonna split them in two for what they did. But they were already dead. I… I took them with me on the road, used them for protection. But you knew that already." She smiled slightly at a memory. "You were the reason I put them down. I thought I could protect Andrea."

He stared at her until she looked up, and their eyes met. He couldn't decide what to say, how to comfort her, how to make this less traumatizing for the two of them, but he wanted to break the tense air between them. It wasn't supposed to be awkward. He looked for common ground in a friend, not strange silence. "Should we hug?" he wondered, only half-joking.

She cocked an eyebrow, and then they both started laughing. He felt like his heart had rolled out of a cage all of the sudden, and his gut, which had been so upset from his memories and his anxiety about Daryl, had finally found some peace. And then the most amazing thing happened. As if he had heard them laughing, his brother began to stir, his hands sliding across the mattress, a low groan coming from his throat.

Merle jumped up and went to his side, crouching down to get a good look at his face. He touched his wrist, reading a normal pulse. "Come on now, Darylena, open your eyes."

"Stop calling me that," Daryl grumbled, his hand moving up to close around Merle's. He coughed, his eyes still shut, and turned his head toward Merle. "Am I dead?"

"Open up your eyes and see for yourself."

His eyes peeled open. He looked around the room, looked at Merle's face, at Michonne's, and then at the dog who had come to his other side. He took an uneven breath, the muscles in his hand clenching around Merle's, and then his eyes rolled shut again. His hand relaxed. "Tired," he said simply, his body shuddering.

Merle pulled the covers up to his neck. "Go to sleep then, dumbass."

"Shut up." With those words, he was unconscious again, peaceful and alive. Michonne crouched beside him and put her hand on Merle's shoulder, squeezing gently. He continued to stare at his brother's face, just like he had when they'd first brought him to the lodge. He couldn't tell if it was a miracle, but he wanted to thank God. He wanted to thank everyone.

He settled with looking over at Michonne, releasing his brother's hand and taking hers. He said nothing, and neither did she. They waited together like they had by the fireplace. Nothing needed to be said because they both understood it perfectly.

Everything was going to be alright.


	48. Collision

Caesar cast his line deep into the murky water of the Yellow Jacket, watching as his bobber sat lifelessly in the center of a series of ripples. He stared at it, half-squinting, hoping something would come along and take a nip at the worm squirming at the end of that hook, but the creek was eerily silent that day. With a sigh, he reeled it in and tugged the worm off, tossing it into the water. Eliza, who'd been sitting on the shore watching him fail for the last three hours, stood and trudged over to him, her shoulders slumping like they always did when she was bored. "Can we go back now?" she whined, shielding her eyes with one small hand as the sun bore down on her face. It was freezing, but she'd taken off her jacket again. "It's cold, and Elsie and Mercy promised we'd go collect the berries on the other side of camp."

He put his rod over his shoulder and picked up her coat, using one hand to help her into it. He put an arm around her and guided her into the woods, listening to all the reasons she should be back at camp already until the moment they stepped foot in the clearing. She grinned at him and then went straight to the Brink sisters, who'd been playing some sort of guessing game. Caesar turned to the fire, where Kellar was warming his hands, and took a seat at the old man's side. He set his rod down at his feet, regretting that he didn't have a fish to fry up for his friends.

"No fish today?" Kellar wondered in his thick French accent, his words curling like fine music from his lips. He put a hand on Caesar's shoulder and squeezed it lightly. "Do not worry, my friend, there is always tomorrow. Besides, I am tired of the taste. I prefer something sweet."

Just then Eliza ran across the camp to them, not looking where she was going. Her problem with men, which had begun when she was in the hands of the Governor, returned when she crashed into Kellar. She recoiled, appearing horrified, and fell to the ground, kicking herself backwards until she was a safe distance away. Caesar jumped up, grabbed her arm, and pulled her to her feet, giving Kellar an apologetic look as he dragged her away from the fire.

He crouched, his hands on her shoulders, and ordered, "Breathe, Estrellita, look at me. _Breathe_." He stroked her curly bangs from her face, cupping her cheek with his hand. Kellar watched them from the fire, now standing to make sure he didn't need to intervene, and the women near the tents had their hands over their mouths. Eliza wasn't looking at Caesar, like she should've been, but focusing on the others, her breaths quick and strained, her eyes dilated, and her hands trembling. She was having a panic attack, one that could escalate quickly into something worse.

Cursing to himself, Caesar picked the girl up and carried her to the slope behind the tents, which led into a dry riverbed. He sat on the edge and rocked her in his lap, letting her stare at the trees instead of the other members of the group. Her breathing slowed, her hands clenching around his arms, and then her head rested against his chest. She pressed her face into his shirt, whispering, "I'm sorry, I couldn't… I can't…"

"Shh, just focus on breathing," he responded. She hadn't reacted like this in weeks, making him believe that she'd had another nightmare the night before, one she hadn't told him about. Whenever she dreamt of what had happened to her, the trauma came back.

Kellar approached from between the tents, slowly and noisily, making sure she knew he was there and that he wouldn't be jumping out at her. He sat beside Caesar, at which point Eliza turned and mashed her face into Caesar's other shoulder, avoiding the man's concerned eyes. He looked instead at Caesar, pressing his lips together. "There are some medications that can help to ease her anxiety… maybe if we tried them, she would not react so strongly to the presence of men."

"We're not doping her up," Caesar growled, his hand running up and down the little girl's back. She turned slightly to look at the doctor, and then she looked at him with wide, worried eyes. "Don't worry," he said, realizing what was on her mind. "I'm not mad at you. I just need to talk to Kellar for a while. Do you want to pick berries with Elsie and Mercy?"

She nodded, but reached up and hugged his neck, unwilling to let go. It was typical of her to avoid speaking in front of other men, so she leaned up and whispered into his ear. "I want you to go."

"I can't, sweetheart, I have to talk to Kellar about some grown-up stuff." He took one look at those glistening brown eyes and his heart twisted in his chest. He'd grown fond of her since he'd taken the Governor's life, considering himself her protector and parent. Each night he fell asleep with the kid snoring next to him, and every morning he dragged her out of her sleeping bag and forced her to be a kid again. It was impossible to do those things and maintain emotional distance. He stroked the hair away from her face again, undoing her clip to capture the bangs, and then he looked at Kellar. "I have somewhere else to be, but we'll talk later."

He walked back through the tents holding Eliza hand, greeting the sisters with a smile. Elsie crouched and kissed Eliza on the forehead, beaming up at Caesar, and then addressing the little girl. "You ready to find supper, kid?"

Eliza nodded eagerly, her hand tightening around his. "Caesar's coming too."

"Good, that means we can paint his fingernails when we paint ours later," she gushed, standing and giving Caesar a teasing look. She took Eliza's other hand and they walked into the forest, followed by Mercy, who giggled at her sister's words.

"Try it and we'll have _you_ for supper, El."

XxX

Moths flickered around the low fire, darting in and out of the reach of the flames, trying their luck when it came to heat and light. Caesar watched them from a foot away, his arms crossed over the chest of the little girl who sat in his lap, his face solemn and exhausted from the day's work. His group sat around the fire with him, the Brinks sisters on his right side, also appearing tired, the old doctor on his left, and Gage and Dakota, both men around Caesar's age, sat directly across from him, getting a suspicious look from Eliza. She had mostly recovered from her episode earlier that day, enjoying the sunshine, getting a very sincere apology from Kellar, and dragging Caesar around by the arm, but she was still tense against him. She was afraid of leaving his side, clingy throughout the afternoon, and he sensed that her fear stemmed from those men. She likened them to the Governor because of their looks and their accents.

It was almost time to go to sleep when Eliza craned her neck to look up at him, her head tipped curiously. "When we were in that house with… _him_… you said you had kids… before the walkers. What were they like?"

The eyes around the fire turned to him, asking the same question over and over again. He shrugged, having lost the emotion that came with the memory of his children. It had been a little over two years since they'd been killed, and he'd been through so much in that time. As he answered her, their faces popped into his head, sweet and innocent, beaming with happiness. "I had a son, Michael – he was twelve, real smart kid. His favorite toys were dinosaurs. He kept making me watch Jurassic Park, even though it scared him." He smiled, poking the tip of her nose with his index finger. She giggled. "My daughter, Kat, she was a lot like you. Sweet, spunky, got on my nerves," he tickled her, speaking through her laughter, "And whenever she wanted something, she would just make those wide eyes and hypnotize me."

Recovering, gasping for air, and smiling at him, Eliza asked him another question, this one a sharp contrast from the last. "What's gonna happen to us?"

He felt the air grow tense as everyone sat back and thought of an answer for themselves. He drew in a long breath, and then released it slowly, giving himself time to consider the innocence left within her, and what she would expect to hear from him. What did she need to hear? "We'll survive, and when this is all over, we'll find a home that we can live in forever."

"What about my brother?"

"He's at the prison, with Carol and her baby," he reminded her, his eyes flickering to the ground as he recalled the woman and the child that the Governor had wanted for himself. He had kept her away to protect her, fearing the survivors would want to punish her for the things she'd done under the command of that evil man. "They'll take care of him," he promised. "And your auntie."

She nodded, yawned, and rubbed her face sleepily into his shoulder. He slid his arm under her legs and lifted her up, carrying her to her tent and tucking her into the sleeping bag. He sat with her until she was asleep, aware that leaving would scare her, and then he returned to the adults around the fire, rubbing both hands over his face to chase away his dark thoughts. Kellar touched his shoulder, and then retreated to his own tent, followed by the Brinks sisters, and Gage and Dakota, who promised they would go hunting early the next morning. Caesar remained to stare into the flames for a bit longer, thinking about his life, his kids, and his shattered young charge.

Something stirred in the woods.

Caesar leapt up, drawing his knife and backing toward the tents. His heart raced in his chest as he kicked at the zipped doors behind him, hissing for the others to come out. He was joined by Dakota, who wielded a serrated machete, and Elsie, who locked the silencer onto her gun and aimed it steadily at the forest. They stood waiting for nearly a minute, their bodies tense, and then the bushes parted and three bodies crashed over the trip line, followed by three horses, who paused and bucked at the fall of their riders.

"Freeze right there!" Elsie demanded, taking a step ahead of the men. She aimed her gun square at the dark figures, who were partially obscured by the light of the fire. Caesar heard a dog growling and yanked her back, wary of a small, but sharp-toothed animal that stalked around its owners protectively. He sheathed his knife and drew his gun, taking a silencer from Elsie's belt and locking it in place. He also aimed at them, but he kept his eyes on the forest, scanning for more.

Seconds later two of the figures were on their feet with their hands up. It took Caesar all of one heartbeat to figure out who he was staring at. His old friend, one he never thought he'd see again, and the woman that man had been sent to kill a long while ago.

"Merle?" he asked, lowering his gun and stepping closer. He squinted through the firelight and saw that ugly son of a bitch squinting right back at him.

"Don't tell me that's you, Brownie," Merle rasped.

"It's me, Redneck. What are you doing with this chick? She tried to kill you, remember? I thought you were with the prison group. They kick you out? Who's that on the ground?"

Merle approached slowly, his hand and his prosthetic still raised in surrender, and inspected the people who were exiting the tents. Eliza stood behind Elsie, though she looked desperate to run to Caesar's side, and Kellar was walking closer, appearing interested by the bladed weapon that turned a handicap into a lethal club. "Whoa, whoa, one question at a time," Merle said in that calm, irritating way he had. "I am with the prison group, we're just on a little outing. This here's Michonne, and let's just say we got even on the whole tryin' to kill each other thing." He glanced back, and then looked between all of them. "You don't happen to have a doctor with you, do you? That there's my little brother, Daryl, and he's hurt bad. Triple tap to the chest."

Unable to resist a request like that, Kellar came forward, pushing by Caesar and approaching the figure on the ground. Elsie and Caesar stepped forward protectively, both of them eyeing Merle, who was a hulking figure, and a worthy opponent in any fight. Caesar listened to Kellar as he examined the man on the ground under the close supervision of Michonne, the dark-eyed warrior who could eliminate all of them if it tickled her fancy.

"It's amazing he's survived so long with the bullets lodged in his breastplate." He looked up at Merle, who had an eyebrow cocked. "He was shot with a damaged gun. The bullets didn't travel as quickly as they were meant to. Instead of piercing the heart, like they should have, they became lodged here in the breastplate, bruising the ribs, not allowing the healing process to initiate."

"Can you fix him?" Merle asked, his voice uncharacteristically vulnerable.

Kellar nodded, pointing at Eliza, "Go and get my bag, darling, the one with the red cross on it." He looked back at Merle and then, with the help of Caesar, who drew closer with each passing second, he stood and hobbled back to friendly territory. "Bring him over here so that I may work in the firelight. Can't let him get too cold."

Dakota and Gage helped Merle move the injured man, leaving Michonne and Caesar to glare at each other suspiciously. As the doctor got down on his knees and looked over his patient, he was joined by Eliza, who unzipped the bag for him. She got up and turned toward Caesar, but she was deterred by Merle, her eyes going cloudy. She sunk back to her knees and stayed beside Kellar. He stared at the man he'd once known, who seemed radically different now. "Why didn't you just go back to the prison?"

"We were," Michonne jumped in when Merle didn't respond. She walked to his other side and crossed her arms, mimicking the two men. Her eyes were dark like the forest. "He was in a coma for three days – he woke up a few hours ago. The lodge we were staying in was overrun. We didn't have time to grab anything but our horses. We were chased out of the hills and… here we are."

Kellar looked up, "Approximately how long has he been unconscious?"

"Half an hour," Merle responded. "His pulse dropped out of nowhere and he fell off his horse."

"Well, this will not take me long. Once the foreign objects are removed, he should begin to heal normally. He is a healthy young man – he will survive this."

Kellar went to work, ignoring his audience. Caesar and Merle sat by the fire, not speaking, but Caesar was wildly curious about the goings on of the prison. Since he'd killed the Governor and escorted Carol to safety, he'd wondered if the people living there would accept him like they'd accepted Merle. Would they forget what Eliza had done in light of what had happened to her? Would she recover more quickly if she felt safe behind those walls?

Eventually the kid worked up the courage to circumnavigate the strangers and sit beside Caesar, peering curiously at the hulking man who watched Kellar anxiously through the flame. Certainly the people in the prison would let his group move in – more bodies, more expertise, and another doctor to help with injuries. It couldn't hurt. It wouldn't. He just had to convince these people, and his group members, that it was in everyone's favor.

He thought of this while he looked at Eliza, his arm around her shoulders. He would save her no matter what was required of him.


End file.
